MISCELLANY  OF 
AMERICAN 
POETRY 

1920 


A  MISCELLANY 

OF  AMERICAN 

POETRY 

1920 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE   AND    HOWE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ20,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND    HOWE,    INC. 


THE   QtJINN  A   BODBN  CO.    PRK8S 
RAHWAT,    N.    J. 


PUBLISHER'S  FOREWORD 

THIS  volume  is,  as  its  name  half  implies,  a  mis 
cellany  of  the  most  recent  work  of  eleven  American 
poets.  These  eleven  form  no  particular  group,  illus 
trate  no  single  influence,  constitute  no  one  "  move 
ment."  Neither  do  they  appear  here  (though  they 
well  might)  as  the  chief  exponents  of  certain  phases 
and  tendencies  in  contemporary  American  literature. 
Rather  these  eleven,  representing  the  best  and  most 
divergent  qualities  in  our  native  poetry,  have  joined 
in  what  is  intended  to  be  a  biennial  exhibition  of 
independent  personalities  without  emphasis  on  the 
part  that  any  of  them  may  have  played  or  are 
playing  in  any  movement. 

For  this  reason,  these  poems  are  published  with 
out  a  preface,  a  program  or  an  editor.  To  be  exact, 
each  poet  has  been  his  own  editor.  As  such,  he 
has  selected  and  arranged  his  own  contributions, 
but  has  had  no  authority  either  in  the  selection  or 
rejection  of  those  of  his  fellow-contributors. 

The  poems  that  follow  are  all  new.  They  are  new 
not  only  in  the  sense  that  they  have  not  been  pre 
viously  issued  by  their  authors  in  book  form  but, 
with  the  exception  of  seven  poems,  none  of  them 
has  ever  appeared  in  print.  These  seven  exceptions 
are  reprinted  by  permission  from  The  Century, 
Harper's,  Scribner's  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse 
and  The  Liberator. 


2083 1  1  1 


CONTENTS 

Publisher's  Foreword 

CONRAD  AIKEN 

First    Movement    from    "  The    Pilgrimage    of 

Festus "  3 

ROBERT  FROST 

Plovmien  2 1 

Good-Bye  and  Keep  Cold  22 

The  Runaway  24 

The  Parlor  Joke  25 

Fragmentary  Blue  29 

The  Lockless  Door  30 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

At  Sunrise  33 

Noon  35 

The  Stone  Place  36 

The  Day  That  Autumn  Came  37 

The  Tower  38 

The  Swan  40 

Sunset  41 

The  Star  42 

Exit  44 

The  Home-Coming  45 

Blake  46 

Advent  47 

The  Road  48 

Kingdoms  49 

v 


Contents 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 

Hamlet  S3 

I  Want  to  Go  Wandering  56 

To  a  Golden  Haired  Girl  58 

One  of  the  First  Families  of  Carmi  59 

The  Land  Horse  Compared  to  the  Sea  Horse  60 

The  Anglo-Saxon  Language  61 

Writing  Wills,  and  so  Forth  62 

The  Traveller  63 

What  the  Clown  Said  64 

AMY  LOWELL 

Night  Clouds  67 

Wind  and  Silver  68 

Granadilla  69 

Old  Snow  70 

Meeting-House  Hill  71 

Once  Jericho  73 

New  Heavens  for  Old  75 
Funeral  Song  for  the  Indian  Chief  Blackbird      77 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

The  Man  Who  Would  Be  God  89 

Johnson,  Negro  99 

Night  Note  102 

Lilac  Magic  103 

A  Man  Named  Millener  104 

In  a  Dream  105 

The  White  Race  106 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

The  Dark  Hills  113 
vi 


Contents 

CARL  SANDBURG 

Clean  Curtains  117 

Blue  Island  Intersection  118 

Pencils  119 

Night  Stuff  121 

For  Christ's  Sake  122 

Man,  The  Man-Hunter  124 

Ossawatomie  125 

Crimson  Changes  People  127 

Long  Guns  128 

A.  E.  F.  129 

Jack  London  and  O.  Henry  130 

Honky  Tonk  in  Cleveland,  Ohio  131 

Crapshooters  132 

Indiana  Dusk  133 

Sumach  and  Birds  134 

Mist  Forms  135 

Helga  136 

Omaha  137 

Silver  Wind  138 

Aprons  of  Silence  139 

SARA  TEASDALE 

Sea  Sand  143 

I     Moonlight  143 

II     "  Like  Barley  Bending  "  143 

III     The  Unchanging  143 

IV    When  Death  is  Over  143 

In  Spring:  Santa  Barbara  145 

The  Long  Hill  146 

Water  Lilies  14? 

Stars  148 

"  Since  There  Is  No  Escape  "  149 

The  Tree  150 

Places  151 

"  What  Do  I  Care?  "  153 

vii 


Contents 

JEAN  STARR  UNTERMEYER 

Three  Dreams  157 

I    The  Silver  Yoke  157 

II    Love  and  Art  158 

III    The  Holy  Band  160 

A  Soldier  Listens  162 

On  Temples  163 

Glimpse  in  Autumn  165 

During  Darkness  166 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Boy  and  Tadpoles  169 

Shin-Leaf  174 

The  New  Adam  175 

Free  176 

Intercession  177 

A  Marriage  178 

Words  for  a  Jig  179 

"  On  the  Field  of  Honor  »  181 

The  Garland  for  Debs  182 

BIBLIOGRAPHY  185 


vm 


CONRAD    AIKEN 


Conrad  Aiken 

FIRST  MOVEMENT  FROM  "THE 
PILGRIMAGE  OF  FESTUS." 


AND  at  last,  having  sacked  in  imagination  many 

cities, 
And  seen  the  smoke  of  them  spread  fantastically 

along  the  sky; 
Having  set  foot  upon  so  many  walls,  fallen  and 

blackened, 

And  heard  the  harsh  lamentations  of  women, 
And  watched,  without  pity,  the  old  men  betraying 

their  vileness, 

Tear  at  their  beards,  and  curse,  and  die; 
Festus,  coming  alone  to  an  eastern  place 
Of  brown  savannahs  and  wind-gnawed  trees, 
Climbed  a  rock  that  faced  alone  to  the  northward, 
And  sat,  and  clasped  his  knees. 

There  wras  before  him  the  confluence  of  three  rivers: 
One  from  the  north,  one  from  the  east,  one  from 

the  west. 
The  one  from  the  east  was  blue,  the  one  from  the 

west  was  green, 
Black  was  the  one  from  the  north,  and  snow  was 

on  its  breast. 
The  sound  of  their  roaring  came  up  in  waves  on 

the  wind, 

3 


Conrad  Aiken 

Into  the  tumultuous  darkness  of  the  south  they  went, 
And  Festus  sat  for  a  day  and  a  night  and  watched 

them 
And  wondered  what  they  meant. 

"  Look,  Festus,  how  without  regard  for  you  and  all 

your  sorrow 

The  huge  sun  rises  and  crosses  the  sky, 
And  your  ridiculous  shadow  circles  about  you 
Shortening  and  lengthening  silently! 
What  does  it  matter  to  the  sun  that  your  robe  is 

scarlet? 

That  the  sword  at  your  hand  is  old  and  green! 
Already  the  winds  gnaw  at  you,  as  they  have  gnawed 

at  these  trees, 
Careless  of  the  many  things  you  have  done  and  seen." 

The  day  ended,  and  the  slow-wheeling  magnificent 

constellations 

Glided  like  lights  of  ships  down  the  river  of  space, 
And  Festus  was  disturbed  once  more,  and  wished  to 

speak, 

And  heavily  raised  his  head  at  last  in  sorrow, 
And  turned  towards  the  stars  his  face, 
And  said:  "Look,  Festus,  how  yet  once  more  the 

immortals 

Kindle  their  delicate  lanterns  and  walk  in  the  sky 
While  you  on  a  lonely  hill  sit  alone  in  sadness 
And  remember  that  you  must  die! 
Look  at  the  stars,  Festus,  treader  of  kingdoms, 
4 


Conrad  Aiken 

You  who  carried  the  world  like  a  bird  in  a  cage, 
You  whose  heart  is  a  desert,  gaunt  with  winter, 
You  whose  sword  in  youth  was  a  sevenfold  lightning 
Now  worn  and  green  with  age! 
Look!  the  immortals  once  more  in  the  sky  of  your 

heart, 

The  immortals  you  scorned  and  forgot, 
Walk  in  the  dim  blue  gardens  softly  apart 
To  a  music  you  taught  them  not!  ..." 

Festus  in  starlight  watched  how  the  three  great 

rivers 
Bearing  perpetual  stars  on  their  breasts,  roared 

down 

To  gorges  and  chasms  and  desolate  plains 
And  jungles  of  death,  and  labyrinthine  cities 
Swept  to  pale  harmonies  by  suns  and  rains; 
And  thought  of  the  thousands  of  nights  and  days  like 

music 

Woven  by  him,  and  the  roses  of  love  and  death 
Fallen  in  petals  in  the  darkness  of  his  heart; 
And  he  sent  among  them  a  breath 
And  set  them  blowing  and  trembling  again,  on  graves, 
On  the  stones  of  streets,  by  door  and  path  and  wall, 
Whirled  in  the  air  from  the  boughs  of  swinging  trees, 
To  stream  like  stars  on  the  wind  and  slowly  fall 
For  the  hands  of  children,  the  hair  of  women,  the 

hearts  of  lovers, 
The  coffins  waiting  beneath  the  swinging  trees, 

5 


Conrad  Aiken 

And  the  myriad  eyes  that  in  his  veins  went  to  and  fro 
Seeking  a  dream  forever  and  finding  no  ease. 

"Listen,  Festus!     How  the  multitudes  within  you 

Make  a  slow  misty  music  of  their  own! 

See  how  the  walls  of  cities  grow  young  again 

With  the  spring  upon  them  blown! 

And  you  too,  Festus!  Treader  in  blood  of  king 
doms! 

You  walk  in  a  moonlit  wind  of  dream; 

And  you  and  the  worlds  about  you  are  young  once 
more 

And  blossom  and  tinkle  and  sing  and  gleam!  " 

Then  Festus  laughed,  for  he  looked  in  his  heart  and 

saw 

His  worlds  made  young  again, 
And  heard  the  sound  of  a  many-peopled  music, 
And  joyously  into  the  world  of  himself  set  forward, 
Forgetting  the  long  black  aftermath  of  pain. 

II. 

Listen,  Festus!    The  music,  as  you  lie  sleeping, 
Builds  a  world  of  hills  and  stars  about  you, 
Cities  of  silver  in  forests  of  blue! 
Bells  are  jingling,  birds  are  saluting  the  daybreak, 
The  horns  are  spreading  a  meadow  of  gold  for  you. 
Walls  of  stone  and  jewels  arise  in  the  music 
Like  exhalations  laced  with  fire, 
6 


Conrad  Aiken 

Children  are  playing  and  laughing  beneath  them, 
The  dew  flashes  on  every  spire!  .   .   . 

.  .  .  Festus  lies  alone,  and  watches  across  the  ceiling 
Vague  spokes  of  shadows  wheeling, 
Ghostly  fantasias  from  the  crowded  world: 
A  woman  passes  in  a  vortex  of  light,  a  child  passes, 
Echoes   and   shadows   and   perfumes   are    faintly 
whirled.  .  .  . 

Listen,  Festus!     The  music  is  making  trees, 
The  music  is  making  rivers  and  towers !  .  .  . 
Music  flows  over  the  pools  of  sky  in  clouds 
And  scatters  a  tinkle  of  showers!   .   .   . 
Far  off  there,  on  a  balcony  of  the  wind, 
The  scarf  of  a  maiden  gleams, 
In  a  rose-gold  shaft  of  sun  her  soft  hair  glistens, 
The  clouds  open,  the  tower  is  kindled  and  beams! 
The  waves  of  the  river  in  blue  and  pearl-strewn 

green 

Flash  down  over  rocks  to  the  sea, 
Walls  of  marble  waver  upon  them  and  shatter, 
And  the  mist  of  the  willow-tree! 

.  .  .  Festus  stands  in  the  sunlight  at  the  window, 
And  cruelly  looks  at  roofs  and  rivers  and  skies, 
And  the  trees,  tossing  their  never-escaping  waves 
Of  swirling  leaves,  and  laughs,  and  shuts  his  eyes. 
"  How  many  times  this  music  has  deceived  me! 
How  many  times  I  stoop  and  cup  my  hand 

7 


Conrad  Alken 

Thinking  to  capture  in  it  the  sparkle  of  water,— 
And  quench,  once  more,  my  thirst  with  sand!  " 

But,  as  he  closes  his  eyes,  the  music,  circling, 

Comes  laughing  about  him  and  softly  sings, 

The  trees  whisper,  the  meadows  tremble,  and  it 

seems  to  him 
The  music  touches  him  with  soft  hands;  the  music, 

dancing  about  him, 
Is  a  dance  of  immortal  maidens  in  flaming  eternal 

rings. 

Ill 

Festus,  planting  beans  in  the  early  morning, 
Far  in  his  heart,  in  a  solitary  plain, 
Has  a  vision:  the  sun,  like  a  golden  monster 
Heaving  his  crimson  flanks  from  the  streaming  dark 
ness, 

No  sooner  seeks  to  rise  than  he  is  slain: 
Out  of  a  vast  sarcophagus  of  cloud 
Pours  the  black  death  of  rain. 

.   .   .  Festus,  holding  his  beans  in  the  palm  of  his 

hand, 

Stands  astonished.  .   .  .  But  this  is  least  of  all. 
For,  as  the  rain  comes  wavering  over  the  fields, 
Threshing  the  earth  with  silver  in  its  fall, 
Gathering  into  its  numberless  shafts  of  silver 
What  light  there  is,  and  leaving  the  sky  a  pall, 
8 


Conrad  Aiken 

He  sees,  in  the  arrowy  darkness, 

In  a  flashing  garment  of  rain, 

A  grey  man  like  a  pilgrim 

Come  slowly  over  the  plain. 

On  his  shoulder  is  a  phantom  burden — 

He  stoops,  his  white  beard  glistens; 

For  an  instant  he  pauses,  solitary  in  the  rain, 

And  stands  and  listens. 


And  his  eyes,  for  a  moment,  rest  on  those  of  Festus, 
And  Festus,  troubled,  lets  fall  the  beans  from  his 

hand.  .   .  . 

"  It  is  hard,  Festus,  that  in  this  soul  of  yours, 
This  so  colossal  world  of  hills  and  oceans, 
Forests  and  cities  of  men, 
You  keep  us  here  forever  in  outer  darkness, 
Wretched,  in  wind  and  rain. 
Shall  we  do  nothing  but  feel  upon  our  backs 
The  eternal  lash  of  rain? 
Shall  we  do  nothing,  day  after  day  forever, 
But  plant  these  beans  again?  " 

Festus  guiltily  looks  at  his  beans  a  moment 

Lying  white  and  rain-washed  at  his  feet: 

It  appears  to  him  that  the  rain  is  a  gorgeous  music, 

Sorrowful  and  slow  and  sweet; 

Telling  of  hills  that  lie  beyond  this  plain 

And  beyond  the  hills  a  sea; 

With  beautiful  women  going  and  coming  forever 

9 


Conrad  Aiken 

Through  stone-bright  streets,  by  walls  and  domes 

of  silver, 
In  a  sound  of  music  to  towers  of  filigree.  .  .  . 

" .   .  .  It  is  hard,  Festus,  that  in  this  soul  of  yours, 
This  world  of  clanging  star  and  sun 
With  the  horns  of  glory  blowing  from  space  to  space 
And  the  paean  of  daybreak  just  begun, 
You  keep  us  here  alone  in  a  wind-worn  plain 
Stooping  to  plant  these  beans  in  the  dark  and  the 
rain.  ..." 

Then  Festus,  lifting  his  eyes, 
Watches  the  old  man  pass 
Slowly  among  the  shafts  of  the  rain 
Across  the  wind-lashed  grass, 
On  his  shoulder  a  phantom  burden, 
Till  somehow  he  is  gone: 
Leaving  a  thinning  ghost  of  rain 
And  Festus  standing  alone. 

And  Festus,  resting  his  hands  upon  his  hoe, 
Watches  the  ranks  of  the  purple  rain  ascending 
To  the  cloud  sarcophagus  from  which  they  came. 
And  the  sun  once  more  swims  up  like  a  golden  mon 
ster, — 

Heaving  out  of  the  streaming  dark  his  hissing  flanks 
of  flame. 

IV 

Festus,  lighting  his  pipe  against  the  sun, 
Smokes  in  the  furrows,  regarding  tenderly 
10 


Conrad  Aiken 

His  beans  which,  one  by  one, 

Now  shoulder  through  the  dark  earth  sturdily. 

This  clear  green  neck,  so  exquisitely  bent — 

See  how  it  struggles  till  the  stone  relent !  .  .  . 

A  long  warm  wind  flows  by 

Under  a  clanging  sky; 

Poplars,  a  myriad  shape, 

Incline  and  shiver,  whirl  and  escape; 

The  clods  grow  dry; 

And  one  by  one,  in  delicate  russets  and  greens, 

Festus  observes  his  beans 

Exult  from  the  humid  earth,  intently  spring 

Into  the  sunlight.  .    .   .  And  it  seems  to  him 

That,  if  he  listens,  he  will  hear  them  sing.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  Festus!     Look  how  we, 

Who  in  our  caverns  could  not  see, 

But  only  over  the  blind  walls  blindly  grope 

With  sensitive  hands,  having  no  hearts  to  hope, 

Scarcely  a  dream  to  guide  us, — 

Look  now  how  we 

Press  from  the  black  soil  arrogantly, 

As  with  loud  drums  and  trumpets  bravely  blown, 

And  a  shrill  laugh  for  him  who  dares  deride  us !  ... 

Have  you  no  cave,  no  sunlight,  of  your  own?  .  .  ." 


.   .   .  Festus,  blowing  the  blue  smoke  from  his  pipe 
Pauses  a  moment  in  his  morning  walk, 
Patient  and  patronizing,  like  a  father, 
Who  laughs  in  secret,  hearing  his  children  talk.  .  .  . 

11 


Conrad  Alken 

"  Superbly  moral  beans!     Self-righteous  ones! 
One  might  suppose  you  were  not  beans,  but  suns! 
Wet  from  the  earth,  two  minutes  old,  and  we 
Presume  to  talk  philosophy!   .   .   . 
Yet,  none  the  less, — naively  upright  beans, — 
I  stand  abashed  before  you!  .   .   . 
Is  it  with  your  own  voices  that  you  speak?  .  .  . 
It  is  strangely  like  a  music  I  have  heard — 
Not,  as  one  would  expect  of  you,  a  squeak 
Fainter  than  gossamer  or  cry  of  mote, 
But  the  original,  vast,  reverberant  Word! 
Crashing  of  stars  to  dust,  the  crack  of  moons, 
Combustion  of  suns  .  .  .  is  it  not  these  I  hear?  .  .  . 
Or  is  it  only  the  delicate  slipping  of  sand-grains 
From  the  grotesque  hands  you  rear?  ..." 

Festus,  blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  before  him, 

Has  a  vision:  the  beans  no  longer  seem 

Pale  pygmies  at  his  feet  but,  dark  and  monstrous, 

Green  titans  laboring  in  a  colossal  dream 

With  worlds  upon  their  backs.    Slowly  they  move. 

The  firmament  strains  and  groans,  a  mountain  falls, 

They  shake  in  ruins  their  everlasting  walls  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  dark  they  came, 

To  loosen  torrents  of  water  and  rock  and  flame. 

"  But  am  I  then,"  says  Festus,  "  in  a  cavern 
From  which  I  dare  not  grow— 
Into  the  universe  which  is  myself?  ..." 
.  .  .  The  poplar  whirls  in  the  wind;  the  beans,  be 
fore  him, 
12 


Conrad  Aiken 

Climb  the  colossal  and  savage  stairs  of  the  sun 
light- 
Heartless  and  dreamless,  cruel,  superbly  slow. 


The  world  grows  dark,  says  Festus:  evening  falls, 

And  it  is  like  the  rising  of  grey  walls. 

Down  the  cold  battlements  of  the  west,  the  sun 

Dolorously  descends. 

The  wind  mourns  over  the  stark  and  shattered  trees. 

The  deep  day  ends. 

How  like  the  sorrowings  of  my  heart  is  this, 
This  soft  ascension  of  despair! 
The  warm  red  memories  of  my  heart  go  down 
In  waves  of  mist.  .  .  .  Let  the  stars  find  the  air! 

Here  by  the  gateway  let  me  lean  and  dream 

Of  the  world  that  waits  for  me: 

Through  the  pierced  battlements  of  the  grey  clouds 

gleam 

Delicate  lights;  the  stars  come  out:  I  see 
Beyond  the  plain,  beyond  the  hills,  a  golden  city 
Dizzy  with  shaken  light,  and  through  the  streets 
Petals  are  flung,  and  a  festival  roars  and  passes  .  .  . 
Steeples  rock  with  bells,  a  dull  drum  beats: 
And  now  to  a  delicate  music  the  dancers  come, 
Hurling  up  to  the  night  a  fountain  of  roses, 

13 


Conrad  Aiken 

Whirling  and   laughing  and  burying  under  their 

petals 
The  mournfully  throbbing  and  stubborn  drum.  .  .  . 

O  dancers!  dancers  of  silver!  dancers  of  rose!  .  .  . 
Twinkling  dancers  who  starlike  tread  that  air!  .  .  . 
Lighter  than  waves  you  laugh  against  those  walls; 
How  like  the  secret  dreams  of  my  heart  you  are 
That  dance  once  more  as  the  cold  of  evening  falls. 

.    .    .   And  now  an  emperor  comes!   and  now  an 

empress! 

In  a  golden  chariot  drawn  by  five  white  stallions  .  .  . 
And  now  the  steel-blue  spears  wave  thick  as  rain 
Of  battalions  and  battalions! 
.  .  .  Am  I  an  emperor?    Is  my  word  the  law?  .  .  . 
And  now  the  gods  of  brass  and  silver  pass 
Swaying  and  flashing,  shaking  their  chaplets  of  roses, 
Cruel,  gigantic!    And  an  elephant  with  torches, 
Bearing  an  Egyptian  god  in  a  case  of  glass!  .  .  . 

Listen:  a  horn!   ...  a  violin!  .   .  . 
Weaving  together  an  air  so  golden  thin 
It  cuts  the  heart  in  two. 
A  girl  leans  out  in  the  roar  above  the  torches, 
Her  hair  is  dark,  she  flings  a  camellia  flower: 
Strange  girl,  I  cry  to  you!   .   .   . 

Softer  the  horn  sounds,  fainter  the  violin, 
The  street  is  quiet.    She  draws  the  shutters  in, 
Her  shadow  silently  whirls  away. 
14 


Conrad  Aiken 

Now  that  the  streets  grow  dark  and  cold  and  empty, 

Who  will  stay, — who  will  stay 

To  watch  the  grey  soft-footed  priests  go  by, 

Lifting  their  white  thin  faces  to  the  sky?  .  .  . 

Or  who  will  stay  to  watch  one  coffin  pass, 

Under  few  stars,  amid  stale  litter  of  petals, 

While  one  man  rides  behind  it  on  ass, — 

Looking  neither  to  left  or  right 

But  staring  before  him  into  the  eternal  night?  .   .   . 

The  city  dwindles   .    .    .  the  clouds  go  crumbling 

down  .   .  . 

The  wind  throbs  harplike  through  old  trees, 
Dark  is  the  plain,  and  ancient;  and  to  Festus, 
Leaning  upon  the  ramparts  of  his  world, 
The  thought  comes  that  to-night  his  world  will  freeze. 

VI 

And  observing  from  old  ramparts  cold  with  time 
How  the  hunted  stars  together  choiring  climb 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  like  pilgrims, 
Dreamily,  slowly  ascending  the  long  blue  stairs  of 

fate, — 

Patient  and  pale,  like  those  who,  unresisting, 
Go  forth  to  death  and  close  their  eyes  and  wait, — 

Festus  dreams:  he  sees  himself  alone 
Immense  and  dark  on  a  pinnacle  of  the  world, 
Lying  in  starlight,  hugely  carved  in  stone. 
Carved  of  rock  is  the  pillow  beneath  his  head, 

15 


Conrad  Aiken 

Hewed  in  the  black  star-granite  is  his  bed, 

Solitary  and  vast,  his  upturned  face 

Stares  at  the  cloudless  horror  of  space; 

While  sorrowfully  about  the  bases  of  his  mountain, 

The  pine-shaggy  headlands,  vapor-furled, 

He  hears  the  desolate  waves  of  death  and  time 

Sadly  withdrawn  and  once  more  sadly  hurled. 

.  .  .Ah!     Festus,  is  this  you— 

This  ancient  crumbling  basalt  that  in  the  moonlight 

Feebly  glistens  with  dew? 

Is  this  indeed  you,  Festus, — 

This  unresisting  stone 

On  which  old  leaves  are  blown?  .  .  . 

Yet  not  alone  is  Festus:  in  the  blue  vagueness  there, 

Close  to  the  cold  dew-drenched  sarcophagus, 

Crouched  on  the  topmost  stair, 

A  flute-player  pale  in  the  starlight  blows  his  quaver 
ing  flute 

While  Festus  dreams  above  him  and  is  mute. 

Sharp  and  quick  are  the  notes,  brief  and  piercing, 

They  whirl  and  fly  in  the  dark  like  birds, 

Discordant  and  strange  they  rise  in  the  eternal 
silence 

Like  a  madman's  dishevelled  laughter  and  words. 

Over  the  black  sarcophagus  they  are  blown — 

Ah,  Festus,  do  they  not  trouble  your  ears  of  stone? 

Through  starlit  granite  do  they  not  dart 

To  pierce  your  stone-cold  heart? 

16 


Conrad  Aiken 

Do  they  disturb  the  rest 

Of  the  stone  hands  on  your  breast?  .  .  . 

But  Festus  does  not  stir 

In  the  darkness  of  his  sepulchre, — 

A  dream  possesses  him. 

He  hears,  far  down,  the  struggling  crash  of  waves 

By  the  bases  of  his  mountain,  glutting  the  muffled 

caves; 
He  hears  the  boulders  falling  to  the  grey  torrents 

of  the  sea; 

Wind  flows  over  him  mournfully, 
Mists  of  the  waves  about  him  rise,  the  vermilion 

stars  grow  dim.  .   .   . 

And  lightly  between  the  hands  of  the  flute-player 
Whirl  forth  shy  birds  of  dream, 
They  twinkle  above  the  sepulchre, 
Their  wings  in  the  starlight  gleam.  .   .   . 
And  now  soft  fire  descends  from  their  wings, 
And  Festus'  dream  glares  red: 
Cloud-palaces  and  kingdoms  dark 
And  multitudinous  cities  of  rose 
Within  his  dream  are  spread.  .   .   . 
(The  spears  of  your  armies,  Festus,  on  this  plain, 
Are  as  the  glimmering  darkness  of  the  rain!  .  .  . 
Listen!     They  call  you  emperor!   .    .   . 
And  a  crown  is  on  your  head!) 

Festus,  never  stirring  at  all, 

Lying  forever  aloft  and  alone  in  the  starlight, 

17 


Conrad  Aiken 

Sadly  replies  from  the  carven  stone  at  last: 
"  Who  are  you,  now,  you  strange  flute-player, 
Who,  blowing  your  birds  above  me  here  in  the 

silence, 

Dare  to  disturb  my  rest?   .    .    . 
Do  you  think,  with  dreams  like  these, 
To  tempt  me  down,  or  drown  me  in  these  seas? 
Ah!  it  is  the  sevenfold  lightning  alone 
Will  wake  this  heart  of  stone.  ..." 

Then,  in  the  shadow  of  the  sepulchre, 

The  flute-player,  growing  old, 

Blows  one  weak  note  from  his  broken  flute; 

And  the  lightning,  sevenfold, 

Smoking,  clangs  from  a  star,  and  splits 

The  eternal  rock  apart: 

And  into  the  sea  the  mountain  falls, 

The  great  waves  laugh,  and  among  them  falls 

Hissing  and  faint,  far  down,  soon  lost, 

The  ember  of  a  heart.  .  .   . 

.    .   .  And  Festus,  leaning  gravely  above  the  ram 
parts, 

Watching  a  blood-red  star  go  down  the  sky, 
Stands  astonished.    Was  this  indeed  a  dream? 
Summits  of  snow  await  him  far  in  the  starlight: 
Cities,  beyond  the  snow-peaks,  stir  and  gleam. 


18 


ROBERT   FROST 


Robert  Frost 


PLOWMEN 

I  HEAR  men  say  to  plow  the  snow. 
They  cannot  mean  to  plant  it  though- 
Unless  in  bitterness,  to  mock 
At  having  cultivated  rock. 


21 


Robert  Frost 


GOOD-BYE  AND  KEEP  COLD 

THIS  saying  good-bye  on  the  verge  of  the  dark 
And  cold  to  an  orchard  so  young  in  the  bark, 
Reminds  me  of  all  that  can  happen  to  harm 
An  orchard  away  at  the  end  of  the  farm 
All  winter  cut  off  by  a  hill  from  the  house. 
I  don't  want  it  girdled  by  rabbit  and  mouse, 
I  don't  want  it  dreamily  nibbled  for  browse 
By  deer,  and  I  don't  want  it  budded  by  grouse. 
(If  certain  it  wouldn't  be  idle  to  call, 
I'd  summon  grouse,  rabbit  and  deer  to  the  wall 
And  warn  them  away  with  a  stick  for  a  gun.) 
I  don't  want  it  stirred  by  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
(We  made  it  secure  against  being,  I  hope, 
By  setting  it  out  on  a  northerly  slope.) 
No  orchard's  the  worse  for  the  wintriest  storm, 
But  one  thing  about  it,  it  mustn't  get  warm. 
"  How  often  already  you've  had  to  be  told 
Keep  cold,  young  orchard.    Good-bye  and  keep 

cold. 

Dread  fifty  above  more  than  fifty  below." 
I  have  to  be  gone  for  a  season  or  so; 
My  business  awhile  is  with  different  trees, 
Less  carefully  nurtured,  less  fruitful  than  these 
And  such  as  is  done  to  their  wood  with  an  ax — 
Maples  and  birches  and  tamaracks. 
I  wish  I  could  promise  to  lie  in  the  night 
22 


Robert  Frost 

And  share  in  an  orchard's  arboreal  plight, 
When  slowly  (and  nobody  comes  with  a  light! ) 
Its  heart  sinks  lower  under  the  sod; 
But  something  has  to  be  left  to  God. 


23 


Robert  Frost 

THE  RUNAWAY 

ONCE  when  the  snow  of  the  year  was  beginning  to 

fall, 
We  stopped  by  a  mountain  pasture  to  say  "  Whose 

colt?  " 

A  little  Morgan  had  one  forefoot  on  the  wall, 
The  other  curled  at  his  breast.    He  dipped  his  head 
And  snorted  to  us.    And  then  he  had  to  bolt. 
We  heard  the  miniature  thunder  where  he  fled 
And  we  saw  him  or  thought  we  saw  him  dim  and 

grey, 

Like  a  shadow  against  the  curtain  of  falling  flakes. 
"  I  think  the  little  fellow's  afraid  of  the  snow. 
He  isn't  winter-broken.    It  isn't  play 
With  the  little  fellow  at  all.    He's  running  away. 
I  doubt  if  even  his  mother  could  tell  him,  '  Sakes, 
It's  only  weather.'    He'd  think  she  didn't  know. 
Where  is  his  mother?    He  can't  be  out  alone." 
And  now  he  comes  again  with  a  clatter  of  stone 
And  mounts  the  wall  again  with  whited  eyes 
And  all  his  tail  that  isn't  hair  up  straight. 
He  shudders  his  coat  as  if  to  throw  off  flies. 
"  Whoever  it  is  that  leaves  him  out  so  late, 
When  other  creatures  have  gone  to  stall  and  bin, 
Ought  to  be  told  to  come  and  take  him  in." 


24 


Robert  Frost 

THE  PARLOR  JOKE 

You  won't  hear  unless  I  tell  you 
How  the  few  to  turn  a  penny 
Built  complete  a  modern  city 
Where  there  shouldn't  have  been  any, 
And  then  conspired  to  fill  it 
With  the  miserable  many. 

They  drew  on  Ellis  Island. 
They  had  but  to  raise  a  hand 
To  let  the  living  deluge 
On  the  basin  of  the  land. 
They  did  it  just  like  nothing 
In  smiling  self-command. 

If  you  asked  them  their  opinion, 
They  declared  the  job  as  good 
As  when,  to  fill  the  sluices, 
They  turned  the  river  flood; 
Only  then  they  dealt  with  water 
And  now  with  human  blood. 

Then  the  few  withdrew  in  order 

To  their  villas  on  the  hill, 

Where  they  watched  from  easy  couches 

The  uneasy  city  fill. 

"  If  it  isn't  good,"  they  ventured, 

"  At  least  it  isn't  ill." 

25 


Robert  Frost 

But  with  child  and  wife  to  think  of, 
They  weren't  taking  any  chance. 
So  they  fortified  their  windows 
With  a  screen  of  potted  plants, 
And  armed  themselves  from  somewhere 
With  a  manner  and  a  glance. 


You  know  how  a  bog  of  sphagnum 
Beginning  with  a  scum 
Will  climb  the  side  of  a  mountain, 
So  the  poor  began  to  come, 
Climbing  the  hillside  suburb 
From  the  alley  and  the  slum. 


As  their  tenements  crept  nearer, 
It  pleased  the  rich  to  assume, 
In  humorous  self-pity, 
The  mockery  of  gloom 
Because  the  poor  insisted 
On  wanting  all  the  room. 


And  there  it  might  have  ended 
In  a  feeble  parlor  joke, 
Where  a  gentle  retribution 
Overtook  the  gentlefolk; 
But  that  some  beheld  a  vision: 
Out  of  stench  and  steam  and  smoke, 
26 


Robert  Frost 

Out  of  vapor  of  sweat  and  breathing, 
They  saw  materialize 
Above  the  darkened  city 
Where  the  murmur  never  dies, 
A  shape  that  had  to  cower 
Not  to  knock  against  the  skies. 


They  could  see  it  through  a  curtain, 
They  could  see  it  through  a  wall, 
A  lambent  swaying  presence 
In  wind  and  rain  and  all, 
With  its  arms  abroad  in  heaven 
Like  a  scarecrow  in  a  shawl. 


There  were  some  who  thought  they  heard  it 

When  it  seemed  to  try  to  talk 

But  missed  articulation 

With  a  little  hollow  squawk, 

Up  indistinct  in  the  zenith, 

Like  the  note  of  the  evening  hawk. 


Of  things  about  the  future 

Its  hollow  chest  was  full, 

Something  about  rebellion 

And  blood  a  dye  for  wool, 

And  how  you  may  pull  the  world  down 

If  you  know  the  prop  to  pull. 

27 


Robert  Frost 

What  to  say  to  the  wisdom 
That  could  tempt  a  nation's  fate 
By  invoking  such  a  spirit 
To  reduce  the  labor-rate! 
Some  people  don't  mind  trouble 
If  it's  trouble  up-to-date. 


28 


Robert  Frost 


FRAGMENTARY  BLUE 

WHY  make  so  much  of  fragmentary  blue 
In  here  and  there  a  bird  or  butterfly 
Or  flower  or  wearing-stone  or  open  eye, 
When  heaven  presents  in  sheets  the  solid  hue? 

Since  earth  is  earth,  perhaps,  not  heaven  (as  yet) — 
Though  some  savants  make  earth  include  the  sky; 
And  blue  so  far  above  us  comes  so  high 
It  only  gives  our  wish  for  blue  a  whet. 


29 


Robert  Frost 

THE  LOCKLESS  DOOR 

IT  went  many  years, 
But  at  last  came  a  knock, 
And  I  thought  of  the  door 
With  no  lock  to  lock. 

I  blew  out  the  light, 
I  tiptoed  the  floor, 
And  raised  both  hands 
In  prayer  to  the  door. 

But  the  knock  came  again. 
My  window  was  wide; 
I  climbed  on  the  sill 
And  descended  outside. 

Back  over  the  sill 
I  bade  a  "  Come  in  " 
To  whoever  the  knock 
At  the  door  may  have  been. 

So,  at  a  knock, 
I  emptied  my  cage 
To  hide  in  the  world 
And  alter  with  age. 


30 


JOHN   GOULD    FLETCHER 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


AT  SUNRISE 

A  WAVE  hung  over  the  city  like  an  enormous  cloud 

Crested  with  smoky  foam,  and  menaced  him  with 
death; 

But  he  did  not  fear,  for  he  had  been  blown  out  upon 
the  sky 

Like  a  tired  swallow  travelling  to  its  nest  against  the 
eaves; 

And  through  the  great  green  wave,  astonished,  reso 
lute, 

He  plunged.  .   .   . 

The  light  went  out  and  there  was  nothing  left 

But  the  shouting  fall  of  water,  the  whirl  and  drift 

of  spray. 

Then  he  awoke  and  saw 
That  the  waters  beat  straight  down, 
Till  the  houses  of  the  city  were  all  broken,  washed 

away, 

And  there  arose 
Out  of  the  boiling  eddies  no  more  men,  but  gods. 

Gods  with  white  laughter  crowned  arose  and  fought 

and  sang, 
Naked  as  time,  through  the  blinding  drift  that  beat 

about  their  knees; 
They  pelted  each  other  with  snowballs  torn  from 

a  comet's  tail, 

33 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

They  screamed  and  shook  with  laughter,  they  hugged 

and  danced  and  sang, 
And  all  around  the  bare  horizon  rang 
With  the  glory  that  no  future  could  assail. 

Yet  all  the  while  he  lay,  still  as  death,  still  as  death; 
Still  as  white  waters  lapping  softly  under  a  lagging 

moon: 

A  tired  swallow  blown  to  his  nest  against  the  eaves, 
He  lay  and  listened  secretly,  and  still  the  gusty 

breath 
Of  thunderous  laughter  crashed  about  the  cloudless 

sky  till  noon. 


34 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

NOON 

THE  moon  in  her  pallid  last  quarter   falls  west 

through  the  burning  blue  sky, 
Which,  filled  with  pearl-coloured  clouds  charging, 

blown  out  by  the  wind  from  the  west, 
Is  galloping  fast  to  the  mountains  that  rear  up  their 

cloudy  dark  brows: 
Below  is  the  leopard-flecked  ocean,  shadow-spotted, 

a  great  space  where  foam 
Is  tossed  over  the  purple-brown  shallows  straight  on 

to  the  rim  of  the  sands 
Stretching  out  in  brown  ribbed  desolation,  naked  and 

smooth  and  unchanged 
As  before  any  human  came  hither  to  spy  out  the 

peaks  and  the  vales. 
Valley  on  valley,  peak  after  peak,  flecked  ever  with 

flying  white  cloud; 
And,  amid  them,  the  waste  of  the  uplands  where  the 

winds  race  forever  to  shore; 
And  the  moon  in  her  pallid  last  quarter  falling  west 

through  the  burning  blue  sky,— 
Noon  in  the  druids'  grey  circle  of  stones  and  happi 
ness  clutched  in  my  heart. 


35 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  STONE  PLACE 

I  COME  and  I  return  to  a  place  of  stone; 
Where  there  is  nothing  left  but  granite  and  silence, 
And  on  the  upland,  spotted  with  heather,  stand 
Weatherworn  blocks  that  time  has  not  taken  away. 
I  come  to  where  rain  and  dust  are  quiet  at  last; 
Here  I  set  forth  at  evening  long  ago, 
And  as  of  old  the  bumble-bee  goes  by. 
The  crickets  are  all  shrilling  in  the  grass, 
The  dry  blades  lightly  press  the  naked  stone. 

Last  night  the  wind 

Shook  the  great  beech-trees,  ramped  about  the  house, 

Covered  the  heather  with  trailing  wisps  of  cloud, 

Left  pools  of  rain  in  cup-shaped  hollows  of  turf. 

To-day  again 

There  is  peace  everywhere  and  the  worn  stones 

Patiently  look  out  upon  the  mountain, 

That  to  the  south  spreads  out 

Naked  grey  ridges  on  a  bank  of  cloud. 

To  a  place  of  stone  I  come  and  I  return: 
Granite  to  granite  is  my  destiny, 
The  lips  of  rock  pressed  closely  to  my  lips, 
The  strength  of  stone  renewing  all  my  own; 
Whatever  the  seagull  to  the  east  is  seeking, 
Or  the  grey  raincloud  follows,  I  know  not. 
Drops  without  number  falling  have  worn  down 
My  heart  to  rock  in  this  grim  wilderness. 
36 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  DAY  THAT  AUTUMN  CAME 

THE  day  that  autumn  came, 

There  was  no  change  in  mountain,  sea,  or  cloud; 

But  the  warm  rain  drew  over, 

Blotting  out  earth  from  sight. 

He  lashed  the  burnt  brown  soil 

With  his  warm  tropic  streamers  of  grey  cloud; 

His  smouldering  coils  of  vapour 

Drawn  out  of  weedy  green  and  purple  seas. 

All  the  night  long  the  wind  talked. 

The  stars,  burnt-orange  sparks, 

Glimmered  between  the  flying  scuds 

That  sunset  spun  to  gold. 

Along  three  open  moors 

Hot  drops  fell  on  the  bracken; 

And  puddles  gleamed  like  scattered  silver  coins, 

In  the  pale  dawn. 

The  day  that  autumn  came, 

Grey  cloud  drew  over  earth; ; 

Warm  haze  was  churned  by  tropic  rain, 

Hot  winds  blew  from  the  south: 

As  if  Brazilian  oceans 

Had  suddenly  risen  to  the  sky 

With  sweeping  crests,  to  spill  on  earth's 

Grey  coasts,  their  smouldering  gold. 

37 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  TOWER 

I  HAVE  builded  to  my  longing  a  great  tower. 

It  shall  pierce  the  chill  blue  sky  with  shafts  of  light, 

Like  a  stripped  swimmer  darting 

Into  the  deep,  still  ocean 

From  off  a  headland  bordered  in  bright  green. 

I  have  reared  up  smooth  stones  to  hold  the  light, 

Have  fitted  them  close  together,  stone  to  singing 

stone, 

Have  shaped  diminishing  pinnacles 
That  blossom  into  carven  flame, 
Alone  amid  the  silence  of  the  sky. 

Crenellated  battlements, 

And  latticed  lancet  windows, 

Leap  up  above  a  multitude 

Of  brown  autumnal  hills: 

Great  elms  stride  out  like  sentinels 

With  golden  plumes  on  lordly  heads; 

Beeches  display  great  brazen  shields, 

Horse-chestnuts  blare  with  molten  notes  of  gold. 

I  have  builded  to  my  longing  a  great  tower. 

Like  proud  alto  voices  rising  I  have  piled 

Choruses  of  shouting  stone 

Poised  on  leaping  arches  underneath  the  sky. 

Creepers,  scarlet,  blare  like  trumpets  underneath; 

Like  an  organ,  echoing  slow,  a  river  glides; 

38 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

And  the  brown  autumnal  hills 
Crowded  with  ranked  trees  at  rest, 
Seem  a  congregation  stilled  at  prayer. 

Mists  steal  forth  at  evening 
From  the  sunken  river-meadows; 
Wrap  it  'round  till  it  stands  grey 
In  the  twilight,  and  apart. 
Over  the  glimmering  surface 
It  stands,  as  blessing  the  dark  waters, 
That  slip  out  easily 
Into  the  sea  of  night. 

I  have  builded  to  my  longing  a  great  tower. 

Who  will  come  and  ring  its  bells? 

Who  will  climb,  and  count  aloft 

Shower  on  shower  of  icy,  splintered  stars? 

Who  will  mark  the  long-moon-dial  swaying 

Of  its  shadow  on  the  cloister  lawn? 

Who  will  hear  what  in  the  silent  dawn-hour 

Shadowy  drooping  branches  speak  to  it? 


39 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  SWAN 

UNDER  a  wall  of  bronze, 
Where  beeches  dip  and  trail 
Their  branches  in  the  water; 
With  red-tipped  head  and  wings — 
A  beaked  ship  under  sail — 
There  glides  a  single  swan. 

Under  the  autumn  trees 

He  goes.    The  branches  quiver, 

Dance  in  the  wraith-like  water, 

Which  ripples  beneath  the  sedge 

With  the  slackening  furrow  that  glides 

In  his  wake  when  he  is  gone: 

The  beeches  bow  dark  heads. 

Into  the  windless  dusk, 

Where  in  mist  great  towers  stand 

Guarding  a  lonely  strand, 

That  is  bodiless  and  dim, 

He  speeds  with  easy  stride; 

And  I  would  go  beside, 

Till  the  low  brown  hills  divide 

At  last,  for  me  and  him. 


40 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

SUNSET 

THE  sea  uprose, 

Wave  after  wave,  nine  waves  behind  each  other; 

The  sky  shut  down 

Like  a  giant's  spread-out  hand; 

And,  in  between, 

There  was  another  country: — 

Miles  on  miles  of  islands  spread  out  naked  ridges 

In  the  windless  desolation 

Of  a  shadowless  red  ocean 

Where  no  ship  had  ever  been. 


41 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  STAR 

THERE  was  a  star  which  watched  upon  my  birth; 

The  great  blue  peaks  were  shrouded, 

The  sea  was  merged  in  haze,  but,  far  apart, 

There  shone  a  single  star. 

And  it  burned  steadily, 

Watching  through  the  night  in  silence; 

It  hung  above  the  dusk 

Whence  I  secretly  came  forth. 

The  peaks  in  the  morning 

Had  thundered  for  creation; 

The  green  sea  had  risen, 

And  swept  clean  the  strand. 

Now  the  wide  earth  was  silent, 

And  silent  the  horizon. 

When,  between  the  ninth  wave  and  the  land, 

I  was  brought  forth. 

There  was  a  star  which  watched  upon  my  coming. 

I  put  forth  my  hand  to  seize  it, 

And,  instantly,  the  sky 

Broke,  and  was  ribbed  with  light; 

Lightning  ran  down  the  peaks  and  smote  the  narrow 

valleys, 

Wandering  blue  flames  flickered  about  the  coastline, 
The  mountains  danced  in  scarlet, 
The  earth  roared  with  deep  joy. 
42 


John  Gould  Fletcher 

There  is  a  single  star  that  burns  tonight  far  in  the 

lonely  heavens; 
The  sea  is  hidden  beneath  it; 
The  mountains  draw  their  capes  of  grey  wool  closely 

about  their  shoulders; 
There  is  no  breath  of  wind. 
Only  the  thought  of  one  coming 
Over  the  oceans  in  silence, 
Wandering  under  a  darker  star 
Than  that  which  saw  my  birth. 


43 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


EXIT 

THUS  would  I  have  it: 
So  should  it  be  for  me, 
The  scene  of  my  departure. 
Cliffs  ringed  with  scarlet, 
And  the  sea  pounding 

The  pale  brown  sand 
Miles  after  miles; 
And  then,  afar  off, 
White  on  the  horizon, 
One  ship  with  sails  full-set 
Passing  slowly  and  serenely, 
Like  a  proud  burst  of  music, 
To  fortunate  islands. 


44 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  HOME-COMING 

SOME  day  I  shall  go  home  at  last, 
With  bluebells  flinging  their  scent  in  many  a  shel 
tered  valley, 
Whitethorn  awaking, 
Fluting  birds  in  the  trees; 
Some  day  I  shall  ride  homewards 
Through  the  rich  flowering 
Of  May  or  early  June, 
Careless,  serene. 

Under  the  roar  of  heavy-leaved  trees — 

a  song  to  set  you  crazy — 
I  shall  go  home  to  my  narrow  grave  in  the  grass. 


45 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


BLAKE 

BLAKE  saw 

Angels  in  a  London  street; 

God  the  Father  on  a  hill, 

Christ  before  a  tavern  door. 

Blake  saw 

All  these  shapes,  and  more. 

Blake  knew 

Other  men  saw  not  as  he; 

So  he  tried  to  give  his  sight 

To  that  beggarman,  the  world. 

"  You  are  mad," 

Was  all  the  blind  world  said. 

Blake  died 

Singing  songs  of  praise  to  God. 

"  They  are  not  mine,"  he  told  his  wife, 

"  I  may  praise  them,  they  are  not  mine." 

Then  he  died. 

And  the  world  called  Blake  divine. 


46 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


ADVENT 

I  HAVE  no  more  gold; 

I  spent  it  all  on  foolish  songs. 

Gold  I  cannot  give  to  you. 

Incense,  too,  I  burned 

To  the  great  idols  of  this  world; 

I  must  come  with  empty  hands. 

Myrrh  I  lost 
In  that  darker  sepulchre 
Where  another  Christ 
Died  for  man  in  vain. — 

I  can  only  give  myself, 
I  have  nothing  left  but  this. 
Naked  I  wait,  naked  I  fall 
Into  Your  Hands,  Your  Hands. 


47 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  ROAD 

As  one  who  walks  in  sleep,  up  a  familiar  lane 

I  went,  my  road  to  discover: 

In  my  head  was  dark  bewilderment  and  in  my 
heart  a  pain; 

The  branches  hung  straight  over. 

At  the  summit  the  sky  blazed  with  endless  stars, 
refired 

By  the  ebbing  of  the  day; 
The  earth  was  darkly  beautiful  and  I  was  very  tired. 

There  was  my  road,  and  nothing  more  to  say. 


48 


John  Gould  Fletcher 


KINGDOMS 

Ax  the  crossing  of  a  street, 
I  know  where  earth  and  heaven  meet; 
And  in  the  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
I  see  where  feet  of  angels  pass. 

Feet  of  angels  wander  by, 
And  in  their  midst  I  can  descry 
Human  feet,  pierced  with  nails; 
I  look  upward.    Light  prevails. 

And  I  have  seen  and  yet  will  see 
Fairies  dancing  merrily; 
Faun,  satyr,  centaur,  and,  sitting  down, 
One  in  pale  robe,  and  thorn-rimmed  crown. 


49 


VACHEL   LINDSAY 


Vachel  Lindsay 


HAMLET 

(Remembering  how  Walker  Whiteside  played 
Hamlet  in  Springfield  so  often  in  Chatterton's  Old 
Opera  House,  thirty  years  ago.) 

Horatio  took  me  to  the  cliff 

Upon  the  edge  of  things 

And  said:   "  Behold  a  cataract 

Of  the  thrones  of  old  dream  kings." 

And  I  saw  the  thrones  falling 

From  the  high  stars  to  the  deep: 

Red  thrones,  green  thrones, 

To  everlasting  sleep. 

I  saw  crowns  falling 

From  the  zenith  to  the  pit: 

Crowns  of  man's  mighty  moods 

And  whims  of  little  wit. 

And  all  the  birds  of  Elsinore 

Flew  round  Horatio's  head 

And  crying,  said: — • 

"  Though  all  the  crowns  go  down, 

Hamlet,  Hamlet,  will  never  lose  his  crown." 

Oh  monarchs  muddled,  stabbed  and  lost, 
Who  have  no  more  to  say: 
Gone  with  Caesar,  with  the  Czar, 
And  the  Kaiser  on  his  way! 
But  now  I  see  a  student-prince 
More  real  than  all  such  kings, 

53 


Vachel  Lindsay 

Hamlet,  home  from  Wittenberg, 

And  every  bird  sings:  — 

"  Though  all  the  crowns  go  down, 

Hamlet,  Hamlet,  will  never  lose  his  crown." 

Some  of  the  dreams  we  saw  dethroned 
Were  merely  hopes  of  mine:  — 
One  that  a  child  might  love  me, 
And  give  one  leaf  for  a  sign; 
One  dream  I  had  in  babyhood 
That  my  rag-doll  was  alive; 
One  that  I  had  in  boyhood 
That  a  sparrow,  caged,  would  thrive. 
One  that  I  had  for  years  and  years 
That  my  church  held  no  disgrace. 
One  that  I  had  but  yesterday:  — 
Faith  in  Wisdom's  face. 

Oh  royal  crowns,  falling  fast 
From  the  days  of  boy's  delight 
The  frost-bright  time  when  first  I  made 
A  giant  snow-man  white. 
And  the  time  of  my  first  Christmas  tree, 
My  first  Thanksgiving  Day, 
My  first  loud  Independence  dawn 
When  the  cannon  blazed  away.    .    .    . 
Oh,  high  fantastic  hours 
That  died  like  dog  and  clown, 
Into  the  awful  pit 
We  saw  their  crowns  go  down, 
But  Hamlet,  Hamlet,  will  never  lose  his  crown. 
54 


Vachel  Lindsay 

As  sages  walk  with  sages 

On  the  proud  Socratic  way, 

Hamlet  struts  with  players 

Till  the  world's  last  day. 

With  seeming  shameless  strollers 

He  swaggers  his  black  cloak, 

With  a  prince's  glittering  eye 

He  spoils  the  townsmen's  joke. 

As  I  watch  him  and  attend  him 

He  compels  them  to  give  room, 

And  makes  Fifth  Street  our  battlement 

Against  the  shades  of  doom. 

With  poetry,  authority, 

With  every  known  pride 

Hamlet  stands  with  drawn  sword, 

His  Gypsies  at  his  side. 

And  all  the  gardens  of  the  town 

Are  but  Ophelia's  flowers, 

And  all  the  shades  of  Elsinore 

Fly  round  our  Springfield  towers; 

And  Hamlet  kneels  by  all  the  hearts 

That  truly  bleed  or  bloom, 

As  saints  do  stations  of  the  cross 

To  Christ's  white  tomb. 

And  all  the  birds  keep  singing 

To  my  heart  bowed  down: 

"  Hamlet,  Hamlet,  will  never  lose  his  crown." 


55 


Vachel  Lindsay 

I  WANT  TO  GO  WANDERING 

I  WANT  to  go  wandering.    Who  shall  declare 
I  will  regret  if  I  dare? 

To  the  rich  days  of  age — 
To  some  mid-afternoon — 

A  wide  fenceless  prairie, 
A  lonely  old  tune, 

Ant-hills  and  sunflowers, 
And  sunset  too  soon. 

Behind  the  brown  mountain 

The  sun  will  go  down; 
I  shall  climb,  I  shall  climb, 

To  the  sumptuous  crown; 
To  the  rocks  of  the  summit, 

And  find  some  strange  things:  — 
Some  echo  of  echoes 

When  the  thunder-wind  sings; 
Old  Spanish  necklaces, 

Indian  rings, 
Or  a  feeble  old  eagle 

With  great,  dragging  wings. 
He  may  leave  me  and  soar; 

But  if  he  shall  die, 
I  shall  bury  him  deep 

While  the  thunder-winds  cry. 
And  there,  as  the  last  of  my  earth-nights  go: 
What  is  the  thing  I  shall  know? 
56 


Vachel  Lindsay 

With  a  feather  cast  off  from  his  wings 

I  shall  write,  be  it  revel  or  psalm, 

Or  whisper  of  redwood,  or  cypress,  or  palm, — 

The  treasure  of  dream  that  he  brings. 

The  soul  of  the  eagle  will  call, 
Whether  he  lives  or  he  dies: — 
The  cliff  and  the  prairie  call, 
The  sage-brush  and  starlight  sing, 
And  the  songs  of  my  far-away  Sangamon  call 
From  the  plume  of  the  bird  of  the  Rockies, 
And  midnight's  omnipotent  wing— 
The  last  of  my  earth-nights  will  ring 
With  cries  from  a  far  haunted  river, 
And  all  of  my  wandering, 
Wandering, 
Wandering, 
Wandering.     .    .    . 


57 


Vachel  Lindsay 

TO  A  GOLDEN  HAIRED  GIRL  IN  A 
LOUISIANA  TOWN 

You  are  a  sunrise, 

If  a  star  should  rise  instead  of  the  sun. 

You  are  a  moonrise, 

If  a  star  should  come,  in  the  place  of  the  moon. 

You  are  the  Spring, 

If  a  face  should  bloom, 

Instead  of  an  apple-bough. 

You  are  my  love 

If  your  heart  is  as  kind 

As  your  young  eyes  now. 


58 


Vachel  Lindsay 

ONE  OF  THE  FIRST  FAMILIES  OF  CARMI 

There's  a  house  in  Carmi  haunted 
By  the  ghosts  of  a  thousand  owls: 
The  wisdoms  that  died  early 
In  the  family  of  the  Sprowls. 
They  lived  a  hundred  years, 
Would  rob  and  sow  and  reap; 
But  never  since  the  town  was  built 
Thought  a  thought  that's  deep  .    .    . 
And  so  the  owls  keep  hooting, 
And  nip  them  in  their  sleep. 


59 


Vachel  Lindsay 

THE  LAND  HORSE  COMPARED  TO  THE  SEA 
HORSE 

The  land-horse  everybody  rides 
Until  his  eyes  are  dim. 
But  the  sea  horse — 
Every  wave  he  rides, 
And  nobody  rides  him ! 


60 


V ache I  Lindsay 

THE  ANGLO-SAXON  LANGUAGE 

THE  Anglo-Saxon  language, 
Like  the  endless  salty  ocean, 
Washes  every  shore  of  Earth 
And  leaps  to  meet  the  moon. 
And  every  world-wide  storm  today 
Upheaves  the  ravening  breakers, 
And  every  desperate  ark  and  raft 
Embarks  there,  late  or  soon. 

Rouse,  Oh  shining  minstrel-girl ! 
You  walk  not  by  a  fishpond, 
But  skirt  the  waves  of  Saxon  speech 
Where  far-brought  sea-weeds  shine. 
Now  make  a  singing  boat  so  stout 
That  it  will  ride  in  splendor, 
From  evening  land  to  morning  star, 
From  Iceland  to  the  line. 

Where  is  that  flaming  maiden 
Whose  springtime  heart  will  gather 
Our  ocean-storm  of  Saxon  speech 
In  one  great  glory- tune? 
A  singing  Eve  in  chaos 
Who  binds  collosal  kingdoms, 
A  conquering  sweetheart  on  the  sea 
That  leaps  to  meet  the  moon. 


61 


Vachel  Lindsay 


WRITING  WILLS,  AND  SO  FORTH 

Old  judge  hoot-owl  sits  by  his  ink-well 
Writing  wills  for  the  wealthy  and  swell. 
He  knows  something  he  wont  tell : 
Three  little  house-flies  drowned  in  his  ink-well, 
Three  little  scandals  in  a  peanut-shell. 


62 


Vachel  Lindsay 

THE  TRAVELLER 

The  moon's  a  devil  jester 
Who  makes  himself  too  free. 
The  rascal  is  not  always 
Where  he  appears  to  be. 
Sometimes  he  is  in  my  heart- 
Sometimes  he  is  in  the  sea : 
Then  tides  are  in  my  heart, 
And  tides  are  in  the  sea. 

Oh  traveller,  abiding  not 
Where  he  pretends  to  be! 


63 


Vachel  Lindsay 

WHAT  THE  CLOWN  SAID 

"  THE  moon's  a  paper  jumping  hoop," 
Went  on  the  circus  clown, 

"  A  film  of  gilded  nonsense 

For  the  games  of  Angel-town. 

"  If  I  could  break  those  horses 

That  gallop  through  my  sleep, 
I'd  reach  that  aggravating  hoop 
And  make  my  finest  leap. 

"  I  climb  upon  their  backs,  and  ride, 

But  always  slip  too  soon     .     .     . 
And  fall  and  wake,  when  just  one  mile 
Remains  to  reach  the  moon." 


64 


AMY   LOWELL 


Amy  Lowell 

NIGHT  CLOUDS 

THE  white  mares  of  the  moon  rush  along  the  sky 
Beating  their  golden  hoofs  upon  the  glass  Heavens; 
The  white  mares  of  the  moon  are  all  standing  on 

their  hind  legs 
Pawing  at  the  green  porcelain  doors  of  the  remote 

Heavens. 
Fly,  Mares! 
Strain  your  utmost, 
Scatter  the  milky  dust  of  stars, 
Or  the  tiger  sun  will  leap  upon  you  and  destroy  you 
With  one  lick  of  his  vermilion  tongue. 


67 


WIND  AND  SILVER 

GREATLY  shining, 

The  Autumn  moon  floats  in  the  thin  sky. 

And  the  fish-ponds  shake  their  backs  and  flash  their 

dragon  scales 
As  she  passes  over  them. 


68 


Amy  Lowell 

GRANADILLA 

I  CUT  myself  upon  the  thought  of  you 

And  yet  I  come  back  to  it  again  and  again. 

A  kind  of  fury  makes  me  want  to  draw  you  out 

From  the  dimness  of  the  present 

And  set  you  sharply  above  me  in  a  wheel  of  roses. 

Then,  going  obviously  to  inhale  their  fragrance, 

I  touch  the  blade  of  you  and  cling  upon  it, 

And  only  when  the  blood  runs  out  across  my  fingers 

Am  I  at  all  satisfied. 


69 


Amy  Lowell 

OLD  SNOW 

THE  earth  is  iron, 

The  winds  are  bands  of  steel, 

The  snow  is  a  pock-marked  beggar-woman 

Crouching  at  a  street  corner, 

Whining  an  old  misery  over  and  over. 

They  say  she  was  white  once,  and  a  virgin. 

But  who  remembers  it? 

Seeing  her  lie  indecently  huddled  upon  an  iron  earth, 

Cringing  under  the  strokes  of  the  steel-band  wind. 


70 


Amy  Lowell 


MEETING-HOUSE  HILL 

I  MUST  be  mad,  or  very  tired, 

When  the  curve  of  a  blue  bay  beyond  a  railroad 

track 
Is  shrill  and  sweet  to  me  like  the  sudden  springing 

of  a  tune, 
And  the  sight  of  a  white  church  above  thin  trees  in 

a  city  square 

Amazes  my  eyes  as  though  it  were  the  Parthenon. 
Clear,  reticent,  superbly  final, 
With  the  pillars  of  its  portico  refined  to  a  cautious 

elegance, 

It  dominates  the  weak  trees, 
And  the  shot  of  its  spire 
Is  cool  and  candid, 
Rising  into  an  unresisting  sky. 
Strange  meeting-house 
Pausing  a  moment  upon  a  squalid  hill-top. 
I  watch  the  spire  sweeping  the  sky, 
I  am  dizzy  with  the  movement  of  the  sky; 
I  might  be  watching  a  mast 
With  its  royals  set  full 
Straining  before  a  two-reef  breeze. 
I  might  be  sighting  a  tea-clipper, 
Tacking  into  the  blue  bay, 
Just  back  from  Canton 

71 


Amy  Lowell 

With  her  hold  full  of  green  and  blue  porcelain 
And  a  Chinese  coolie  leaning  over  the  rail 
Gazing  at  the  white  spire 
With  dull,  sea-spent  eyes. 


72 


Amy  Lowell 

ONCE  JERICHO 

WALKING  in  the  woods  one  day, 
I  came  across  a  great  river  of  rye 
Sweeping  up  between  tall  pine-trees. 
The  grey-green  heads  of  the  rye 
Jostled  and  flaunted 
And  filled  all  the  passage  with  a  tossing 
Of  bright-bearded  ears, 
It  was  very  fine, 
Marching  and  bending 

Under  the  smooth,  wide  undulation  of  the  upper 
branches  of  pines. 

"Yi!  Yi!  "  cried  the  little  yellow  cinquefoil. 

"  What  is  this  bearded  army  which  marches  upon 

us?" 
And  the  loosestrife  called  out  that  somebody  was 

treading  on  its  toes. 
But  the  rye  never  heeded. 
"  Bread!  Bread!  "  it  shouted,  and  wagged  its  golden 

beards. 

"  Bread  conquering  the  forest." 
I  stood  with  the  little  cinquefoil 
Crushed  back  against  a  bush  of  sheep's  laurel. 
"  I  am  sorry  if  I  crowd  you,"  said  I. 
"  But  the  rye  is  marching 
And  the  green  and  yellow  banners  blind  me, 
Also  the  clamour  of  the  great  trumpets 
Is  confusing." 

73 


Amy  Lowell 

"  But  you  are  trampling  me  down,"  wailed  the  loose 
strife. 
"  Alas!     Even  so. 

Yet  do  not  blame  me, 

For  I  too  have  scarcely  room  to  stand." 

Then  a  gust  of  wind  ran  upon  the  tall  rye, 

And  it  flung  up  its  glittering  helmets  and  shouted 

"  Bread!  "  again  and  again, 
And  the  hubbub  of  it  rolled  superbly  under  the 

balancing  pines. 

"  Three  times  the  trumpets,"  thought  I, 

And  I  picked  the  cinquefoil. 

"  Why  not  on  my  writing-table,"  I  said,  caressing 
its  petals  with  my  finger. 

And  that,  I  take  it,  is  the  end  of  the  story. 


74 


Amy  Lowell 

NEW  HEAVENS  FOR  OLD 

I  AM  useless. 

What  I  do  is  nothing, 

What  I  think  has  no  savour. 

There  is  an  almanac  between  the  windows: 

It  is  of  the  year  when  I  was  born. 

My  fellows  call  to  me  to  join  them, 

They  shout  for  me, 

Passing  the  house  in  a  great  wind  of  vermilion 

banners. 

They  are  fresh  and  fulminant, 
They  are  indecent  and  strut  with  the  thought  of  it, 
They  laugh,  and  curse,  and  brawl, 
And  cheer  a  holocaust  of  "Who  comes  firsts!  "  at 

the  iron  fronts  of  the  houses  at  the  two 

edges  of  the  street. 
Young  men  with  naked  hearts  jeering  between  iron 

house- fronts, 

Young  men  with  naked  bodies  beneath  their  clothes 
Passionately  conscious  of  them, 
Ready  to  strip  off  their  clothes, 
Ready  to  strip  off  their  customs,  their  usual  routine, 
Clamouring  for  the  rawness  of  life, 
In  love  with  appetite, 
Proclaiming  it  as  a  creed, 
Worshipping  youth, 
Worshipping  themselves. 

75 


Amy  Lowell 

They  call  for  women  and  the  women  come, 

They  bare  the  whiteness  of  their  lusts  to  thv,  dead 

gaze  of  the  old  house-fronts, 
They  roar  down  the  street  like  flame, 
They  explode  upon  the  dead  houses  like  new,  sharp 

fire. 

But  I- 

I  arrange  three  roses  in  a  Chinese  vase: 

A  pink  one, 

A  red  one, 

A  yellow  one. 

I  fuss  over  their  arrangement. 

Then  I  sit  in  a  South  window 

And  sip  pale  wine  with  a  touch  of  hemlock  in  it, 

And  think  of  flie  Winter  nights, 

And  field-mice  crossing  and  re-crossing 

The  spot  which  will  be  my  grave. 


76 


Amy  Lowell 

FUNERAL  SONG 
FOR  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  BLACKBIRD, 

BURIED  SITTING  UPRIGHT 

ON  A  LIVE  HORSE  ON  A  BLUFF 

OVERLOOKING  THE  MISSOURI  RIVER 

HE  is  dead, 

Our  Chief. 

AY!  AY!  AY!  AY! 

Our  Chief 

On  whom  has  fallen  a  sickness, 

He,  our  Leader, 

Who  has  grievously  died. 

At  his  feet  we  are  gathered, 

Warriors,  his  children, 

We  have  cut  our  flesh 

Before  his  body. 

Our  blood  drips  on  the  willow  leaves, 

The  willows  with  which  we  have  pierced  our  arms. 

We  beat  the  willow-sticks, 

We  mourn  our  Brother,  our  Father, 

We  chant  slow  songs 

To  the  listening  spirit  of  the  great  Chief 

Blackbird. 

Yesterday, 

When  the  sky  was  red 

And  the  sun  falling  through  it, 

They  called  to  you, 

77 


Amy  Lowell 

Your  ancestors, 
From  the  middle  of  the  sky; 
From  a  cloud,  circling  above  you, 
They  pronounced  your  name. 

He  is  dead, 

Our  Leader. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 

Our  Chief,  Blackbird. 

Beat  the  willow-sticks, 

Let  our  blood  drop  before  him. 

You  have  sung  your  death  song, 

To  your  friends  you  have  sung  it, 

To  the  grasses  of  the  prairie, 

To  the  river, 

Cutting  the  prairie 

As  the  moon  cuts  the  sky. 

See,  we  lift  you, 

The  blood  of  our  willow-wounds  drops  upon  you. 

We  dress  you  in  your  shirt  of  white  buckskin, 

We  fasten  your  leggings  of  mountain-goat  skin, 

We  lay  upon  your  shoulders 

Your  robe  of  the  skin  of  a  young  buffalo  bull. 

We  clasp  your  necklace  of  grizzly  bears'  claws 

About  your  neck. 

We  place  upon  your  head 

Your  war-bonnet  of  eagle  plumes. 

All  this  you  have  commanded. 

78 


Amy  Lowell 

AY!  AY!  AY!  AY! 

Strike  the  willow-sticks. 

You  shall  depart, 

From  among  us. 

It  is  time  for  you  to  depart, 

You  are  going  on  a  long  journey. 

Up  to  the  tall  cliff 

We  carry  you. 

Our  blood  drips  upon  the  ground. 

And  your  horse, 

Your  white  horse, 

Goes  with  you. 

He  follows  you. 

Softly  we  lead  him 

After  your  body, 

After  your  not  heavy  body 

Shrunken  in  death. 

The  hawk  is  flying 

Halfway  up  the  sky. 

So  will  you  be  halfway  above  the  earth. 

On  the  high  bluff 

You  are  standing. 

The  ground  trembles 

As  we  place  you  upon  it. 

You  are  dead, 

But  you  hear  our  songs. 

You  are  dead, 

But  we  lift  you  on  your  White  Weasel  Horse. 

79 


Amy  Lowell 

He  trembles  as  the  earth  trembles. 

His  skin  quivers 

At  the  loose  touch  of  your  knees. 

Ai!  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 

Leader  of  the  Warriors 

To  the  spirit  land  you  are  going. 

Our  blood  cries  to  you, 

Dropping  upon  the  willow  leaves. 

Who  is  this  that  rides  the  Wolf  Trail  at  evening? 

Blackbird, 

Chief  of  his  people. 

His  bow  is  in  his  hand, 

Scarlet  the  heads  of  his  arrows, 

The  feathers  of  his  shield  sweep  the  ground. 

Lift  him, 

Lift  him, 

Lift  the  War  Chief 

To  his  light-legged  horse. 

We  will  stand, 

We  will  see  him, 

We  shall  behold  his  body 

Set  on  high  on  a  high  horse, 

On  his  own  horse, 

His  white  horse  of  many  battles. 

We  shall  see  him 

As  we  desire. 

You  are  bright  as  the  sun  among  trees, 

You  are  dazzling  as  the  long  sun  running  among  the 

prairie  grasses, 
80 


Amy  Lowell 

You  pierce  our  eyes  as  a  thunder-cloud  rising  against 

the  wind. 

Who  shall  be  to  us  as  he, 
Our  Chief? 

Your  white  horse  shivers  and  is  still, 
He  will  carry  you  safely  over  the  Wolf  Trail 
To  those  who  are  talking  about  you 
Calling  to  you  to  come. 

Lay  little  sods  of  earth 

About  the  feet  of  the  white  horse. 

Gather  those  which  contain  the  seeds 

Of  camass,  and  puccoon,  and  lupin. 

Watch  that  the  seeds  of  the  looks-like-a-plume  flower 

Spread  the  earth  we  are  laying  against  his  sides, 

So  that,  in  the  time  when  the  ducks  and  geese  shed 

their  feathers, 
The  black  breasts  may  drop  from  the  sky  upon 

them,  singing, 
As  our  blood  drops  on  these  sods. 

AY!  AY!  AY!  AY! 

Proudly  he  sits  his  white  horse, 

His  head-feathers  make  a  noise  in  the  wind. 

Great  Chief, 

Father  of  people, 

Facing  the  cleft  hill, 

Facing  the  long,  moving  river, 

Waiting  briefly  for  the  edge  of  night, 

Abiding  the  coming  of  the  stars, 

81 


Amy  Lowell 

Poised  to  leap, 

To  strike  the  star-way  with  the  mighty  energy 

Of  your  powerful  horse, 

To  take  the  Wolf  Trail  with  the  shout  of  cunning, 

To  ride  streaming  over  the  great  sky. 

We  watch  you, 

We  exalt  you, 

We  cheer  you  with  our  hunting-cries, 

Our  battle-songs, 

To  the  beating  of  our  willow-sticks  you  shall  ride, 

And  he,  your  White  Weasel  Horse, 

Shall  bear  you  above  the  clouds 

To  the  tepees  beyond  the  star-which-never-moves. 

When  the  waters  are  calm 

And  the  fog  rises, 

Will  you  appear? 

Then  will  come  up  out  of  the  waters 

Your  brothers, 

The  Otters. 

From  beneath  the  high  hill 

Your  voice  shall  echo  forth. 

Your  voice  shall  be  as  metal 

In  the  spaces  of  the  sky, 

Your  war  club  shall  resound  through  the  sky. 

Like  your  brothers, 

The  Eagles, 

Your  voice  shall  descend  to  us 

Down  the  slopes  of  the  wind. 

You  will  go  round  the  world, 

82 


Amy  Lowell 

You  will  go  over  and  under  the  world, 

You  will  come  to  the  Place  of  Spirits. 

AY!  AY!  AY!  AY! 

We  are  pitying  ourselves 

That  he,  our  Father,  is  dead. 

He  is  carried  like  thunder 

Across  the  sky. 

The  trees  are  afraid  of  the  wind, 

So  are  we  afraid  of  the  whirlwind  of  our  enemies 

Without  our  Chief  to  lead  us. 

When  the  rain  comes 

On  the  wings  of  crows 

In  the  Spring, 

We  shall  fear  even  the  voice  of  the  owl, 

Sitting  alone  in  our  lodges 

Now  that  you  are  gone. 

How  many  the  count  of  your  battles! 

At  night, 

When  the  dogs  were  still, 

Going  softly 

You  would  seek  the  villages  of  your  enemies  to 

destroy  them. 
You  who,  all  night  long, 
Were  standing  up  until  daylight. 
You  fought  as  one  who  dances  singing: 
"Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh! 
Death  I  bring! 
I  dance  upon  those  I  kill, 
I  scalp  those  I  kill. 

83 


Amy  Lowell 

I  laugh  above  those  I  kill, 

Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  Heh-yeh!  " 

Your  enemies  were  not  able  to  shoot, 

Their  bow-strings  were  wet 

And  the  sinews  stretched 

And  slipped  off  the  ends  of  the  bows. 

Your  arrows  were  red 

As  grasshoppers'  wings 

When  they  fly  high  in  the  sun. 

Your  enemies  were  ashamed  before  you 

Since  you  cut  off  their  heads 

And  tied  their  scalps  to  your  bridle-rein. 

Now  you  journey  alone, 

Journey  along  the  Wolf  Trail 

Wearily  among  the  little  stars. 


Ai!  AY!  AY!  AY! 

It  is  time  for  you  to  depart, 

You  are  going  on  a  long  journey. 

You  are  going  in  your  shoes. 

You  cannot  travel, 

Your  feet  are  weary  with  many  steps, 

But  your  round-hoofed  horse  shall  step  for  you, 

He  shall  bear  you  over  the  trail  of  stars. 

The  deer  walks  alone, 

Singing  of  his  shining  horns, 

So  shall  you  walk 

Singing  of  the  great  deeds 

You  have  done  in  this  world. 

84 


Amy  Lowell 

Leader  of  the  Warriors, 

Where  are  you? 

We,  your  children, 

Sing  a  song  of  five  sounds 

To  your  departing  spirit. 

We  sing  a  song  of  vermilion, 

We  stain  our  hands 

And  mark  the  palms  of  them  in  red 

On  the  flanks  of  your  horse. 

We  heap  the  sods  about  him, 

We  hold  his  head 

And  stuff  his  nostrils  and  ears  with  earth. 

We  cover  your  arms,  your  shoulders, 

Your  glittering  face, 

The  feathers  flying  above  your  head. 

The  water-birds  will  alight  upon  your  body, 

We  shall  see  your  grave  from  below, 

From  the  place  where  the  snipe  stand  above  their 

shadows  in  the  water. 
Ail  Ai!  Ai!  Ai! 

The  Morning  Star  and  the  Young  Morning  Star 
Are  together  in  the  sky  above  the  prairie. 
How  far  have  you  already  gone  from  us? 
Our  blood  drips  slowly, 
The  wounds  are  closing, 
It  is  time  we  pulled  out  the  willow-sprays 
And  left  this  place 
Before  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


85 


JAMES   OPPENHEIM 


James  Oppenheim 
THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  GOD 


ONE  does  not  at  first  know,  he  does  not  at  first  know, 

That  he  wants  to  be  God     .     .     . 

All  things  evidently  are  ready: 

The  races  on  their  continents  are  cobwebbed  to  a 

spider  center  at  London     .     .     . 
Cable,  wireless,  steamship  and  locomotive, 
Have  brought  the  peoples  of  the  earth  into  one 

great  auditorium     .     .     . 
One  may  stand  at  any  point  of  the  earth 
And  speak  to  the  planet     .     .     . 

He  was  a  college  professor,  a  college  president, 

Governor  of  a  small  American  State     .     .     . 

Politics  are  unclean  in  America; 

By  certain  ways,  still  hidden  from  us, 

By  other  ways,  openly  known, — like  rising  on  a 

powerful  friend  later  discarded— 
He  captures  the  Democratic  nomination  and  be 
comes  President  of  the  United  States. 

What  shall  we  make  of  him? 
He  is  suave,  cool,  imperturbable,  detached; 
He  works  in  secret,  with  no  man's  counsel; 
He  has  a  keen  mind  that  plays  with  principles ; 
Committees  of  Congressmen  feel  like  small  bad  boys 
before  the  limpid  flow  of  his  intellect; 

89 


James  Oppenheim 

He  appears  to  be  liberal,  to  be  a  lover  of  our  Great 
American  Abstractions, 

Equality,  freedom,  kindness,  happiness,  prosper 
ity  ... 

He  becomes  the  Little  White  Father  in  the  White 
House. 


Earth  is  shaken  by  war-rumbles: 

Aloof,  pacific  America  is  shocked  and  scandalized 

by   the  primitive  war-cries   that  warm  the 

cables: 
Whole  peoples  are  mobilized  and  swung  into  mighty 

mechanical  tides  against  each  other; 
Europe  is  aflame; 
The  spider  in  London  by  every  gossamer  thread 

steadily  draws  the  planet  into  the  fire  .     .     . 
All  races  slaughter  and  are  slain  across  the  middle 

of  Europe     .     .     . 

But  America  remains  untouched; 

A  hundred  million  strong  our  civilization  stiffens 
and  strengthens  our  spokesman  in  Wash 
ington. 

Gigantically  backed,  the  sense  of  greatness  is  opened 
in  him, 

There  swims  across  him  the  wildest  dream  in  his 
tory  .  .  . 

Mohammed  dominated  his  massive  millions  with  a 
message, 

90 


James  Oppenheim 

Buddha  ruled  India  with  words, 

Confucius  corraled  China  with  a  book, 

Christ's  Cross  is  a  second  sky  over  the  earth  .     .     . 

But  none  of  these  spoke  to  more  than  a  segment 
of  the  world. 

Earth  itself  now,  with  all  peoples,  looks  for  a  Sa 
viour, 

And  behold,  there  is  a  Saviour  Nation,  dedicated 
to  peace, 

A  nation  founded  on  liberty  and  equality, 

A  nation  at  peace  in  a  world  at  war, 

A  nation  with  a  mission,  a  Chosen  People, 

And  the  representative  of  that  nation  in  the  White 
House 

Has  arrived  at  the  dramatic  moment,  the  world  his 
audience  .  .  . 

It  is  time  again  for  the  Word  made  flesh     .     .     . 
We  are,  possibly,  in  the  dawn  of  those  Thousand 

Years  of  Peace 
When  the  Prince  of  Peace  shall  appear,  not  in  a  tiny 

sea-town  and  a  local  byway, 
Walking  unknown  among  a  tribe  of  Israel, 
But  blazoned  by  the  sky,  at  the  Judgment  Day,  in 

all  four  corners  of  the  earth. 

It  is  Judgment  Day:  the  cannon  say  so: 
Doom's  Day:  the  young  men's  blood  so  testify. 
One  man's  words  may  be  vivider  than  the  battle, 
louder  than  the  guns. 

91 


James  Oppenhelm 

A  pacifist  Christ  speaks  out  and  bids  the  world 
listen 


There  are  slips  and  pitfalls  .  .  .  there  are 
woundings  of  American  honor,  American 
trade  .  .  . 

There  is  heat  engendered  in  the  Saviour  Na 
tion  .  .  . 

There  is  heat  and  a  little  flame     .     .     . 

There  is  pressure  on  Washington     .     .     . 

The  days  are  confused,  the  powers  that  rule  Amer 
ica  are  imperative, 

The  tide  turns:  the  Great  Pacifist  changes  his  role: 

He  suddenly  appears  more  as  a  mad  Mohammed 
than  a  Christ, 

He  looses  the  floods  of  war,  he  amazes  the  world 
with  a  new  Crusade, 

He  shouts  to  America  to  arise  and  fight! 

The  aloof  land  is  apathetic; 

There  is  a  dangerous  moment  of  lull  when  no  one 

knows  what  may  happen     .     .     . 
The  Great  Leader  must  flay  his  people  into  action, 
He  must  turn  and  scourge  and  oppress  his  pacific 

friends; 

The  mighty  press  thunders  his  messages; 
The  warlike  rise  up  and  carry  his  tidings; 
America   goes   into   camp,   America   flings   to   the 

breeze  a  million  starry  banners; 
America  marches; 
92 


James  Oppenheim 

America  crosses  a  bridge  of  ships  to  the  bloody 
mud  of  Flanders  .  .  . 

Did  Europe  cross  over  and  make  America? 

America  recrosses  and  saves  Europe: 

For  this  she  was  born,  here  is  the  first  gigantic 

realization  of  her  mission, 
Her  first  destined  historic  blow    .     .     . 

II 

A  man  shall  come  out  of  the  West     .     .     . 

The  tide  of  the  race  has  been  to  the  West     .     .     . 

Out  of  a  golden  liberty-dream  rode  radiant  Wash 
ington, 

In  a  continent's  sunrise  Whitman  chanted, 

Born  lowly,  like  Jesus,  raised  high,  like  Jesus,  and 
slain,  like  Jesus, 

Abraham  Lincoln  walks  beside  Jesus  in  the  heart 
of  mankind. 

Nation  that  is  a  God  among  the  numberless, 

A  God  become  a  Man; 

We  weep  that  peace  has  come  and  we  kneel  down 
and  praise  Wilson: 

He  turns  our  sacrifice  into  power, 

From  our  deaths  and  agonies  he  builds  the  Eternal 
Fraternity  of  the  Earth: 

We  have  fought  the  war  that  ends  war: 

A  Christ  of  the  common  people  stands  as  the  su 
preme  king  of  the  Earth; 

93 


James  Oppenheim 

His  word  is  magic     .     .     . 

For  the  power  of  America,  power  of  gold  and  guns, 

Power  sucked  from  the  wasted  powers  of  the  dying 
nations, 

Is  in  the  two  hands  of  her  indomitable  Presi 
dent  .  .  . 

The  last  aloofness  of  the  West  is  broken. 

He  himself  sets  sail  for  Europe,  he  himself  comes, 

And   Kings  and   Premiers  and   Commanders   may 

well   tremble. 
For  the  great  tyrant,  who,  by  a  miracle,  is  another 

Lincoln, 
Has  only  to  speak  the  Word  that  shall  save  the 

world     .     .     . 

Men  have  dreamed  of  being  God: 

But  this  man  need  no  longer  dream: 

It  is  actually  so:  the  billions  of  the  Earth  wait  on 

his  word: 
Destiny  is  in  his  pocket     .     .     . 

The  nations  are  a  whirl  of  plaudits:  the  cities  are 

garlands  of  flowers: 

The  poor  crowd  for  a  sight  of  the  American: 
Streets  and  cities  are  named  for  him: 
In  the  immense  pathos  of  a  hope  that  becomes  a 

faith 
The  long-betrayed  peoples,  with  their  half-starved 

children  and  enfeebled  women, 
See  once  again  their  Saviour  come    .    .    . 
94 


James  Oppenheim 

He  has  spoken  his  Sermon  on  the  Mount, — 
Now,  will  he  ride  on  an  ass  to  Jerusalem, 
And  flay  the  money-changers  in  the  Temple, 
And,  if  need  be,  hang  on  the  Cross? 
He    enters    the    Council    Chambers    .     .     .    and 

what  is  this? 

The  doors  shut  behind  him     .     .     . 
The  time  of  the  great  silence  has  come    .     .     . 

Ill 

The  silence  is  long     .     .     . 

Wherever  there  is  a  Christ  there  is  a  Judas, 

And  wherever  there  is  a  Christ  there  are  two  thieves, 

one  on  either  side  of  him     ... 
But  when  was  a  Christ  his  own  Judas, 
And  when  his  own  thieves? 

Politics  in  America  are  unclean: 

How  does  one  finally  become  a  President  of  the 

United  States? 
Can  one  take  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  with  one 

hand 
And  take  up  the  Cross  with  the  other? 

Storm  in  the  rear! 

Perhaps  at  home  a  prophet  is  without  honor, 

Or  perhaps  at  home  they  know  him  too  well     .     .     . 

There  is  dirty  work  in  Paris  and  the  discarded 

friends  of  the  old  days 
Rise  up  and  flay  the  false  Christ    .     .    . 

95 


James  Oppenheim 

And  now  boldly  the  Pharisees  strike  up  a  back-fire 

in  the  Congress: 

A  divided  nation  sends  doubt  upon  Europe     .     .     . 
Beware,  Wilson,  lest  you  be  felled  by  a  blow  in  the 

back! 

He    hurries    home     ...    he    thunders     .     .     . 

he  returns  to  Paris     .     .     . 
Slowly  the  sorry  story  of  base  bargains  and  mutual 

salesmanship 

Corrupts  the  dream  of  the  world. 
America  falls  away  from  her  President     .     .     . 
He  is  left  naked;  he  has  taken  away  from  him  the 

strength  of  a  hundred  million; 
Does  anything  remain?     What  is  the  greatness  of 

the  naked  man? 

He  returns,  changed     .     .     . 

The  balloon,  bulged  with  omnipotence, 

Pricked,  collapses     .     .     . 

But  he  maintains  the  defiance  of  omnipotence, 

The  thundering  Jehovah  becomes  a  snarling  Satan; 

He  sets  out  about  the  country,  up  and  down, 

Dazed,  raging,  sputtering,  cursing     .     .     . 

In  the  damnation  of  finding  his  almightiness  a  pose, 

A  mask  that  no  longer  has  magic, 

He  is  only  a  defeated  sensitive  man,  half-demented 

with  his  ludicrous  place  in  history, 
And  with  the  going  down  of  the  greatest  dream  of 

all  time, 
96 


James  Oppenheim 

And  with  the  apparent  losing  of  the  sublime  oppor 
tunity  of  the  world     .     .     . 

He  rails,  he  blasphemes  in  private,  he  strains  his 

last  strength, 
And  something  breaks  within  him,  and  he  is  felled, 

the  mortal, 

Stricken — stricken  by  that  Something     .     .     . 
That  Something  which  never  permits  a  man  to  be 

more  than  a  man. 

What  is  he  then? 

A  child,  dribbling  at  the  mouth     .     .     . 

The  most  ironic  tragedy  in  history. 


IV 

What  shall  we  think  of  the  man  who  wanted  to  be 

God? 
He  meant  well,  doubtless:  there  was  a  side  to  him 

that  dreamed  great  dreams: 
But  American  politics  are  unclean     .     .     . 

The  great  have  a  curious  way  of  their  own  of  com 
ing  to  us, 

They  often  start  out  from  a  log  cabin,  a  butcher- 
shop,  or  a  manger, 

And  they  rise  by  devious  new  paths  undiscovered 
before     .     .     . 

97 


James  Oppenheim 

Obloquy  dogs  them  most  of  their  lives     .     .     . 

They  themselves  must  be  rejected  and  despised  be 
fore  they  can  be  leaders  of  the  despised  and 
the  rejected. 


98 


James  Oppenheim 

JOHNSON,  NEGRO 

I  AM  down  in  a  mountain  coal-town  of  West  Vir 
ginia 
Investigating  a  lynching. 

The  town  smiles  in  the  sunlight  between  the  moun 
tain  and  the  river, 

And  by  night  it  is  gaudy  with  Main  Street's  movie 
shows,  glaring  shops  and  electric  lights  .  .  . 

Crowds  of  roughs,  miners  and  mountaineers,  go 
seeking  women  and  drink  and  shows. 

It  is  by  day,  in  the  quiet  sunlight,  that  I  feel  brood 
ing  over  the  town  a  horror  and  a  guilt. 

I  feel  it  in  the  trembling  sheriff     .     .     . 

"Did  all  I  could,"  he  says,  "Daisy's  thirteen: 
her  pa  a  miner. 

She  keeps  house  for  him. 

It  was  ten  in  the  morning,  you  know,  and  Daisy 
alone. 

There  come  a  knock.  She  opened.  She  says  then 
a  beast  of  a  nigger  took  her  by  the  throat 
and  did  it  to  her. 

Then  he  got  away. 

"  We  had  a  line-up,  fifteen  niggers  in  a  row; 
And  this  fellow  Johnson  among  'em. 
Daisy  was  took  afore  them.    She  pointed  out  John 
son  and  give  a  scream. 

99 


James  Oppenheim 
"  That  settled  him    .    .    . 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did  what  I  could:  took  him  over  to 

Gentryville,  out  of  the  county. 
I'm  not  saying  anything:  one  never  does  in  these 

parts: 
But  I  know  what  I  think." 

I  knew  what  he  thought:  a  dozen  painted  the  pic 
ture  for  me, 

Until  the  dreamer  in  me  became  the  negro  Johnson: 

I  happen  casually  in  a  new  town,  a  stranger, 

I  am  arrested,  a  girl  screams  that  I  raped  her, 

I  am  hurried  to  jail     .     .     . 

This  is  a  visitation  from  God,  and  I  cower  and  moan 
with  fear  of  the  supernatural. 

Then  I  am  terrified:  the  great  snarling  and  howling 
beast  is  at  the  gates: 

There  are  shots,  doors  broken  down,  trample  of 
feet  .  .  . 

I  shriek  for  mercy  .  .  .  O  my  mother!  my 
mother! 

I  am  dragged  on  a  rope  down  the  streets, 

Blood  runs  from  me,  blows  are  falling, 

I  am  going  to  die     .     .     . 

Then,  I  am  horribly  mutilated, 

And  the  rope  is  flung  over  a  telegraph  wire, 

And  I  am  pulled  up     ... 

At  last,  guns,  merciful  bullets     .     .     . 

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James  Oppenheim 

Does  this  end  it? 

No:  the  body  is  there,  the  black  naked,  bleeding 

body     .     .     . 
This  is  torn  to  pieces,  and  women  and  men  carry 

home  fingers  and  toes  and  bits  of  bones  for 

relics. 

What  of  the  girl  Daisy? 

She  is  foolish,  blushes,  contradicts  herself,  isn't  so 

sure. 
Her  doctor  is  sure — that  she  never  was  assaulted. 

This,    too,    is    America — puritan    America,    moral 

America,  free  America     .     .     . 
I  go  North  less  happy  than  I  came. 


101 


James  Oppenheim 

NIGHT  NOTE 

A  LITTLE  moon  was  restless  in  Eternity 

And  shivering  beneath  the  stars 

Dropped  in  the  hiding  arms  of  the  western  hill. 

Night's  discord  ceased: 

The  visible  universe  moved  in  an  endless  rhythm: 
The  wheel  of  the  heavens  turned  to  the  pulse  of  a 
cricket  in  the  grass. 


102 


James  Oppenheim 

LILAC  MAGIC 

MY  heart  is  full  of  the  loveliness  of  evening 
That  passes  like  a  revery  and  a  thought, 
Like  a  meditation  it  broods  in  deepening  gray, 
In  a  noose  of  echoing  silver  the  hills  are  caught. 

Rich  in  its  revelation  of  new  soft  green,  the  world 
Sings  in  cricket  and  frog  and  belated  bird  .  .  . 
I  hardly  know  why  there  is  sudden  love  in  my  heart 
With  what  my  eyes  have  seen  and  my  ears  have 
heard. 

Love,  like  a  bell,  the  loveliness  of  evening 
Rings  in  my  heart  with  notes  silver  and  true, 
So  that  I  go  in  the  lilac-magic  garden 
Needing  to  give  my  heart  to  you. 


103 


James  Oppenheim 

A  MAN  NAMED  MILLENER 

A  MAN  named  Millener  sits  up  all  of  an  April  night 

in  Omaha 

Trying  to  signal  the  planet  Mars  and  get  a  reply  .  .  . 
It  is  the  time  when  Mars  is  nearest  Earth 
And  now  the  two  coasting  planets  in  the  Old  Black 

Sea 

May  hail  one  another  and  break  those  two  silences 
We  call  Infinity  and  Eternity. 

Millener  has  a  giant  wireless  which  sends  waves  so 
long  that  sound  goes  silent 

And  the  waves  search  through  interstellar  space 

And  wash  the  shores  of  planets  .   .   . 

His  wireless  is  a  mouth  speaking  to  the  stars  .   .   . 

It  speaks:  and  becomes  an  ear  .   .   . 

An  Earth-ear  so  great  it  cannot  hear  the  flying  wire 
less  words  of  Europe  and  America 

But  is  tuned  only  to  the  heavens.  .  .  . 

"  We  shall  soon  know,"  thinks  Millener,  "  whether 
there  are  others  beside  ourselves  in  the  uni 
verse  "... 

So  he  sends  the  signals. 

Then  all  night  long  he  waits,  watching  and  listen 
ing  ... 
His  ear  is  to  the  void,  to  the  abyss.  .  .  . 

But  there  is  no  answer  ...  the  Silence  remains 

Silence. 
104 


James  Oppenheim 

IN  A  DREAM 

IN  a  dream,  gentlemen, — • 

For  it  would  have  been  treasonable  to  think  this 

by  myself — 
I  saw  our  venerable  Statue  of  Liberty  suddenly 

bowled  over, 
Sprawling  in  the  bay.  .   .   . 

I  was  startled,  I  can  assure  you, 

And  glad  to  wake  up  and  find  it  was  only  a  dream. 


105 


James  Oppenheim 

THE  WHITE  RACE: 

(A  Letter  to  Asia} 

IT  is  true  that  we  have  put  our  feet  on  your  necks, 
And  it  is  true  that  we  have  plundered  your  great 
ness  .    .    . 
The  white  man  has  been  your  master. 

It  is  not  true  that  we  are  therefore  greater  than  you. 

We  bring  you  a  handful  of  our  great  .  .  .  say  seven 
Greeks,  one  Englishman,  two  Americans, 
three  Russians,  two  Germans,  one  Italian, 
one  Frenchman.  .  .  . 

And  we  say  here  is  great  art,  great  philosophy,  great 
religion. 

Then  against  this  handful  you  stack  thousands  of 
years  of  your  great  men, 

A  greater  art,  a  greater  philosophy,  a  greater  re 
ligion. 

What  then  is  the  white  man's  contribution? 

We  are  the  race  of  science  .    .    . 

We  bring  a  science  that  is  a  colossal  victory  of  in 
tuition,  work  and  intellect, 

Vast  knowledge  that  rules  life  through  power  of 
machinery, 

And  through  this  we  rule  you. 

Philosophy,    art,    religion    are   overshadowed    and 

driven  into  seclusion; 
106 


James  Oppenheim 

Smoke  of  our  factories  rises  in  China  and  India; 
The  telegraph  poles  run  over  the  Himalayas; 
We  promulge  and  pour  our  distorted  mechanical  life 
over  the  world. 

Is  it  all  loss? 

The  planet  used  to  be  spacious  worlds  remote  each 

from  the  other, 

Boxed  dreams,  compartmented  and  isolated; 
Now  it  is  one  world,  and  flash  of  the  word  works 

instant  miracle  on  the  five  continents. 


The  white  man  has  wrought  the  framework  of  world- 
union  .  .  . 

You  could  not  withstand  him,  you  of  the  splendid 
subjectivity, 

For  the  dream  can  be  caught  and  caged  by  the 
engines. 

But  the  men  of  engines  have  tasted  the  poverty  of 

the  spirit, 

And  are  hungry  for  the  glory  of  the  East; 
They   hunger    for   manna    that    falls    down    from 

heaven, 

And  for  the  song  of  free  singing  lips, 
And  for  the  spacious  contemplations  of  the  seer. 

Great  East,  you  are  our  sought-for  and  our  de 
sired  .  .  . 

107 


James  Oppenheim 

How  can  we  come  with  our  caustic  realisms,  our 

eyes  trained  to  the  lens  and  the  lever, 
And  yet  partake  of  your  special  greatness? 

Asians,  you  see  our  failure  here, 
And  you  prophesy  our  downfall, 
And  the  rise  of  the  new  Asia.  .  .  . 

It  is  not  so  ... 

You  do  not  know  the  emerging  grandeur  of  our 

science 
Which  itself  now  pierces  with  lucid  rays  into  the 

life  of  the  spirit. 

Of  old,  with  you,  and  our  medievals, 

The  inner  life  was  gained  by  leaving  the  devil  and 

his  ways 

And  dropping  into  the  abyss  of  God  .  . 
It  was  always:  Which  world  will  you  have — for  you 

cannot  have  both? 
Choose:  Emperor  or  Galilean. 

But  now  we  seek  the  inner  from  the  outside, — 
With  our  deep  psychology,  our  feet  firmly  on  the 

earth, 
We  enter  the  spaceless  and  timeless  depths  of  the 

spirit, 
We  make  a  mystic  process,  and  emerge  with  the 

great  treasure 

For  use  in  a  world  of  engines  and  men. 
108 


James  Oppenheim 

The  long-dreamed  synthesis  is  upon  us, 
An  earth-life  rich  with  the  spirit, 
The  West  powerful  with  the  East. 

Out  of  our  terrible  science,  which  has  so  distorted 
and  begrimed  the  beautiful  Earth, 

And  enslaved  peoples, 

Till  we  thought  beauty  and  dream  and  the  Gods 
were  gone  in  the  debris, 

Out  of  this  science  re-arises,  with  eternal  lineaments 
and  undying  dawn, 

Beauty,  dream,  Gods   .    .    . 

Asia  re-arises  up  through  the  smokes  of  Europe. 

Such,  Asia,  the  white  man's  gift  to  you  ...  in  the 

end  .    .    . 
You  may  destroy  us,  drive  us  from  your  continent, 

overrun  Europe; 
But  you  must  destroy  us  with  our  own  weapons  and 

our  own  tools, 
Our  own  knowledge; 

You  must  destroy  us  by  becoming  as  we  are, 
You  must  destroy  us  through  our  victory  over  you. 


109 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

THE  DARK  HILLS 

DARK  hills  at  evening  in  the  west, 
Where  sunset  hovers  like  a  sound 
Of  golden  horns  that  sang  to  rest 
Old  bones  of  warriors  under  ground, 
Far  now  from  all  the  bannered  ways 
Where  flash  the  legions  of  the  sun, 
You  fade — as  if  the  last  of  days 
Were  fading,  and  all  wars  were  done. 


113 


CARL   SANDBURG 


Carl  Sandburg 


CLEAN  CURTAINS 

NEW  neighbors  come  to  the  corner  house  at  Congress 
and  Green  streets. 

The  look  of  their  clean  white  curtains  was  the  same 
as  the  rim  of  a  nun's  bonnet. 

One  way  was  an  oyster  pail  factory,  one  way  they 
made  candy,  one  way  paper  boxes,  straw- 
board  cartons. 

The  warehouse  trucks  shook  the  dust  of  the  ways 
loose  and  the  wheels  whirled  dust — there  was 
dust  of  hoof  and  wagon  wheel  and  rubber  tire 
— dust  of  police  and  fire  wagons — dust  of  the 
winds,  that  circled  at  midnights  and  noons 
listening  to  no  prayers. 

"  O  mother,  I  know  the  heart  of  you,"  I  sang  passing 
the  rim  of  a  nun's  bonnet — O  white  curtains 
— and  people  clean  as  the  prayers  of  Jesus 
here  in  the  faded  ramshackle  at  Congress  and 
Green. 

Dust  and  the  thundering  trucks  won — the  barrages 
of  the  street  wheels  and  the  lawless  wind  took 
their  way — was  it  five  weeks  or  six  the  little 
mother,  the  new  neighbors,  battled  and  then 
took  away  the  white  prayers  in  the  windows? 

117 


Carl  Sandburg 

BLUE  ISLAND  INTERSECTION 

Six  street  ends  come  together  here. 

They  feed  people  and  wagons  into  the  center. 

In  and  out  all  day  horses  with  thoughts  of  nose-bags, 

Men  with  shovels,  women  with  baskets  and  baby 

buggies. 

Six  ends  of  streets  and  no  sleep  for  them  all  day. 
The  people  and  wagons  come  and  go,  out  and  in. 
Triangles  of  banks  and  drug  stores  watch. 
The  policemen  whistle,  the  trolley  cars  bump : 
Wheels,  wheels,  feet,  feet,  all  day. 

In  the  false  dawn  when  the  chickens  blink 
And  the  east  shakes  a  lazy  baby  toe  at  to-morrow, 
And  the  east  fixes  a  pink  half-eye  this  way, 
In  the  time  when  only  one  milk  wagon  crosses 
These  three  streets,  these  six  street  ends, 
It  is  the  sleep  time  and  they  rest. 
The  triangle  banks  and  drug  stores  rest. 
The  policeman  is  gone,  his  star  and  gun  sleep. 
The  owl  car  blutters  along  in  a  sleep-walk. 


118 


Carl  Sandburg 

PENCILS 

PENCILS 

telling  where  the  wind  comes  from 
open  a  story. 

Pencils 

telling  where  the  wind  goes 
end  a  story. 

These  eager  pencils 

come  to  a  stop 

.  .  .  only  .  .  .  when  the  stars  high  over 

come  to  a  stop. 

Out  of  cabalistic  to-morrows, 
come  cryptic  babies  calling  life 
a  strong  and  a  lovely  thing. 

I  have  seen  neither  these 
nor  the  stars  high  over 
come  to  a  stop. 

Neither  these  nor  the  sea  horses 
running  with  the  clocks  of  the  moon. 

Nor  even  a  shooting  star 

snatching  a  pencil  of  fire 

writing  a  curve  of  gold  and  white. 

119 


Carl  Sandburg 

Like  you  ...  I  counted  the  shooting  stars  of  a 
winter  night  and  my  head  was  dizzy  with  all 
of  them  calling  one  by  one: 

Look  for  us  again. 


120 


Carl  Sandburg 

NIGHT  STUFF 

LISTEN  a  while,  the  moon  is  a  lovely  woman,  a  lonely 
woman,  lost  in  a  silver  dress,  lost  in  a  circus 
rider's  silver  dress. 

Listen  a  while,  the  lake  by  night  is  a  lonely  woman, 
a  lovely  woman,  circled  with  birches  and 
pines  mixing  their  green  and  white  among 
stars  shattered  in  spray  clear  nights. 

I  know  the  moon  and  the  lake  have  twisted  the 
roots  under  my  heart  the  same  as  a  lonely 
woman,  a  lovely  woman,  in  a  silver  dress,  in 
a  circus  rider's  silver  dress. 


121 


Carl  Sandburg 

FOR  CHRIST'S  SAKE 

Two  Christs  were  at  Golgotha. 

One  took  the  vinegar,  another  looked  on. 

One  was  on  the  cross,  another  in  the  mob. 

One  had  the  nails  in  his  hands,  another  the  stiff 

fingers  holding  a  hammer  driving  nails. 
There  were  many  more  Christs  at  Golgotha,  many 

more  thief  pals,  many  many  more  in  the  mob 

howling,  "  Kill  him,  kill  him!  " 
The  Christ  they  killed,  the  Christ  they  didn't  kill; 

these  were  the  two  at  Golgotha. 
***** 

Pity,  pity,  the  bones  of  these  broken  ankles. 

Pity,  pity,  the  slimp  of  these  broken  wrists. 

The  mother's  arms,  anybody's  mother,  are  strong 

to  the  last. 

She  holds  him  and  counts  the  heart  drips  .  .  . 
Drip,  drip,  this  will  be  all. 

The  smell  of  the  slums  was  on  him. 
Wrongs  of  the  slums  lit  his  eyes. 
Songs  of  the  slums  wove  in  his  voice. 
The  haters  of  the  slums  hated  his  slum  heart. 

The  leaves  of  a  mountain  tree, 

Leaves  with  a  spinning  star  shook  in  them, 

Rocks  with  a  song  of  water,  water,  over  them, 

122 


Carl  Sandburg 

Hawks  with  an  eye  for  death  any  time,  any  time, — 
The  smell  and  the  sway  of  these  were  on  his  sleeves, 
were  in  his  nostrils,  words. 

One  they  killed. 
One  lives  on ; 

Cross,  thorns,  head,  against  the  moon. 
Nails  was  their  answer, 
Nails, 
Nails. 


123 


Carl  Sandburg 

MAN,  THE  MAN-HUNTER 

I  SAW  Man,  the  man-hunter, 
Hunting  with  a  torch  in  one  hand 
And  a  kerosene  can  in  the  other, 
Hunting  with  guns,  ropes,  shackles. 

I  listened 

And  the  high  cry  rang, 
The  high  cry  of  Man,  the  man-hunter: 
We'll  get  you  yet,    you     sbxyzch! 

I  listened  later. 
The  high  cry  rang: 
Kill  him!     kill  him!     the  sbxyzch! 

In  the  morning  the  sun  saw 

Two  butts  of  something,  a  smoking  rump, 

And  a  warning  in  charred  wood: 

Well,  we  got  him, 
the  sbxyzch. 


124 


Carl  Sandburg 

OSSAWATOMIE 

I  DON'T  know  how  he  came, 
Shambling,  dark,  and  strong. 

He  stood  in  the  city  and  told  men: 

My  people  are  fools,  my  people  are  young  and 

strong,  my  people  must  learn,  my  people  are 

terrible  workers  and  fighters. 
Always  he  kept  on  asking:  Where  did  trjat  blood 

come  from? 

They  said:  You  for  the  fool  killer, 
you  for  the  booby  hatch 
and  a  necktie  party. 

They  hauled  him  into  jail. 
They  sneered  at  him  and  spit  on  him. 
And  he  wrecked  their  jails, 
Singing,  "  God  damn  your  jails." 
And  when  he  was  most  in  jail, 
Crummy  among  the  crazy  in  the  dark, 
Then  he  was  most  of  all  out  of  jail, 
Shambling,  dark,  and  strong; 
Always  asking:  Where  did  that  blood  come  from? 

They  laid  hands  on  him 

And  the  fool  killers  had  a  laugh 

And  the  necktie  party  was  a  go,  by  God. 

125 


Carl  Sandburg 

They  laid  hands  on  him  and  he  was  a  goner. 

They  hammered  him  to  pieces  and  he  stood  up. 
They  buried  him  and  he  walked  out  of  the  grave, 
by  God, 

Asking  again:  Where  did  that  blood  come  from? 


126 


Carl  Sandburg 

CRIMSON  CHANGES  PEOPLE 

DID  I  see  a  crucifix  in  your  eyes 
and  nails  and  Roman  soldiers 
and  a  dusk  Golgotha? 

Did  I  see  Mary,  the  changed  woman, 
washing  the  feet  of  all  men, 
clean  as  new  grass 
when  the  old  grass  burns? 

Did  I  see  moths  in  your  eyes,  lost  moths, 
with  a  flutter  of  wings  that  meant: 
we  can  never  come  again. 

Did  I  see  No  Man's  Land  in  your  eyes 
and  men  with  lost  faces,  lost  loves, 
and  you  among  the  stubs  crying  ? 

Did  I  see  you  in  the  red  death  jazz  of  war 
losing  moths  among  lost  faces, 
speaking  to  the  stubs  who  asked  you 
to  speak  of  songs  and  God  and  dancing, 
of  bananas,  northern  lights  or  Jesus, 
any  hummingbird  of  thought  whatever 
flying  away  from  the  red  death  jazz  of  war? 

Did  I  see  your  hand  make  a  useless  gesture 
trying  to  say  with  a  code  of  five  fingers 
something  the  tongue  only  stutters? 
did  I  see  a  dusk  Golgotha? 

127 


Carl  Sandburg 

LONG  GUNS 

THEN  came,  Oscar,  the  time  of  the  guns. 
And  there  was  no  land  for  a  man,  no  land  for  a 
country, 

Unless  guns  sprang  up 

And  spoke  their  language. 
The  how  of  running  the  world  was  all  in  guns. 

The  law  of  a  God  keeping  sea  and  land  apart, 
The  law  of  a  child  sucking  milk, 
The  law  of  stars  held  together, 

They  slept  and  worked  in  the  heads  of  men 

Making  twenty  mile  guns,  sixty  mile  guns, 

Speaking  their  language 

Of  no  land  for  a  man,  no  land  for  a  country 
Unless  .  .  .  guns  .  .  .  unless  .  .   .  guns. 

There  was  a  child  wanted  the  moon  shot  off  the  sky, 
asking  a  long  gun  to  get  the  moon, 
to  conquer  the  insults  of  the  moon, 
to  conquer  something,  anything, 
to  put  it  over  and  win  the  day, 

To  show  them  the  running  of  the  world  was  all  in 
guns. 

There  was  a  child  wanted  the  moon  shot  off  the  sky. 
They  dreamed  ...  in  the  time  of  the  guns  .   .   . 

of  guns. 
128 


Carl  Sandburg 

A.  E.  F. 

THERE  will  be  a  rusty  gun  on  the  wall,  sweetheart, 

The  rifle  grooves  curling  with  flakes  of  rust. 

A  spider  will  make  a  silver  string  nest  in  the  darkest, 
warmest  corner  of  it. 

The  trigger  and  the  range-finder,  they  too  will  be 
rusty. 

And  no  hands  will  polish  the  gun,  and  it  will  hang 
on  the  wall. 

Forefingers  and  thumbs  will  point  absently  and  casu 
ally  toward  it. 

It  will  be  spoken  among  half-forgotten,  wished-to-be- 
forgotten  things. 

They  will  tell  the  spider:  Go  on,  you're  doing  good 
work. 


129 


Carl  Sandburg 


JACK  LONDON  AND  0.  HENRY 

BOTH  were  jailbirds;  no  speechmakers  at  all; 
speaking  best  with  one  foot  on  a  brass  rail ; 
a  beer  glass  in  the  left  hand  and  the  right 
hand  employed  for  gestures. 

And  both  were  lights  snuffed  out  ...  no 
warning  ...  no  lingering: 

Who  knew  the  hearts  of  these  boozefighters? 


130 


Carl  Sandburg 

HONKY  TONK  IN  CLEVELAND,  OHIO 

IT'S  a  jazz  affair,  drum  crashes  and  cornet  razzes. 
The  trombone  pony  neighs  and  the  tuba  jackass 

snorts. 

The  banjo  tickles  and  titters  too  awful. 
The  chippies  talk  about  the  funnies  in  the  papers. 
The  cartoonists  weep  in  their  beer. 
Ship-riveters  talk  with  their  feet 
To  the  feet  of  floozies  under  the  tables. 
A  quartet  of  white-hopes  mourn  with  interspersed 
snickers : 

"  I  got  the  blues. 
I  got  the  blues. 
I  got  the  blues." 
And  ...  as  we  said  earlier: 

The  cartoonists  weep  in  their  beer. 


131 


Carl  Sandburg 

CRAPSHOOTERS 

SOMEBODY  loses  whenever  somebody  wins. 

This  was  known  to  the  Chaldeans  long  ago. 

And  more:  somebody  wins  whenever  somebody  loses. 

This  too  was  in  the  savvy  of  the  Chaldeans. 

They  take  it  heaven's  hereafter  is  an  eternity  of  crap 
games  where  they  try  their  wrists  years  and 
years  and  no  police  come  with  a  wagon;  the 
game  goes  on  forever. 

The  spots  on  the  dice  are  the  music  signs  of  the 
songs  of  heaven  here. 

God  is  Luck:  Luck  is  God:  we  are  all  bones  the 
High  Thrower  rolled:  some  are  two  spots, 
some  double  sixes. 

The  myths  are  Phoebe,  Little  Joe,  Big  Dick. 
Hope  runs  high  with  a:   Huh,  seven — huh,  come 

seven. 
This  too  was  in  the  savvy  of  the  Chaldeans. 


132 


Carl  Sandburg 

INDIANA  DUSK 

THE  red  barns  .   .   .  in  an  Indiana  dusk  ...  at 

Wawaka  .    .   . 
The  lamplights  touched  off  in  the  gray  covers  of  the 

farmhouses  .    .    . 
The  hill  ridges  where  trees  count  themselves  against 

the  sky  ...  in  the  Indiana  dusk  .  .  . 
Barns,  lamplights,  ridges,  out  of  this  we  make  a 

picture  in  a  railroad  smoker. 
In  the  seat  ahead  four  men  play  poker  and  call  each 

other  tin-horn  gamblers. 
In  the  seat  behind  a  soldier  going  to  California  tells 

how  French  children  asked  him  for  cigaret 

butts. 
Cinders  drum  and  swish  on  the  windows  of  a  sixty 

mile  train  .  .  .  and  the  wheels  ahead  saying: 

Chicka-choo,  chicka-choo,  chicka-choo. 

A  leaf  for  a  day,  a  late  winter  leaf: 
Red  barns  in  the  Indiana  dusk  at  Wawaka, 
Lamplights  touched  off  in  farmhouse  grays, 
Hill  ridge  trees  counting  themselves  against  an  early 
night  sky. 


133 


Carl  Sandburg 

SUMACH  AND  BIRDS 

IF  you  never  came  with  a  pigeon  rainbow  purple 
Shining  in  the  six  o'clock  September  dusk: 
If  the  red  sumach  on  the  autumn  roads 
Never  danced  on  the  flame  of  your  eyelashes: 
If  the  red-haws  never  burst  in  a  million 
Crimson  fingertwists  of  your  heartcrying: 
If  all  this  beauty  of  yours  never  crushed  me 
Then  there  are  many  flying  acres  of  birds  for  me, 
Many  drumming  gray  wings  going  home  I  shall  see, 
Many  crying  voices  riding  the  north  wind. 


134 


Carl  Sandburg 

MIST  FORMS 

THE  sheets  of  night-mist  travel  a  long  valley. 
I  know  why  you  came  at  sundown  in  a  scarf  mist. 

What  was  it  we  touched,  asking  nothing  and  asking 

all? 
How  many  times  can  death  come  and  pay  back  what 

we  saw? 

In  the  oath  of  the  sod,  the  lips  that  swore, 
In  the  oath  of  night  mist,  nothing  and  all, 
A  riddle  is  here  no  man  tells,  no  woman. 


135 


Carl  Sandburg 

HELGA 

THE  wishes  on  this  child's  mouth 
came  like  snow  on  marsh  cranberries ; 
the  tamarack  kept  something  for  her ; 
the  wind  is  ready  to  help  her  shoes; 
the  north  has  loved  her;  she  will  be 
a  grandmother  feeding  geese  on  frosty 
mornings;  she  will  understand 
early  snow  on  the  cranberries 
better  and  better  then. 


136 


Carl  Sandburg 

OMAHA 

RED  barns  and  red  heifers  spot  the  green  grass 
circles  around  Omaha — the  farmers  haul 
tanks  of  cream  and  wagon  loads  of  cheese. 

Shale  hogbacks  across  the  river  at  Council  Bluffs — 
and  shanties  hang  by  an  eyelash  to  the  hill 
slants  back  around  Omaha. 

A  span  of  steel  ties  up  the  kin  of  Iowa  and  Nebraska 
across  the  yellow,  big-hoofed  Missouri  River. 

Omaha,  the  roughneck,  feeds  armies, 
Eats  and  swears  from  a  dirty  face. 
Omaha  works  to  get  the  world  a  breakfast. 


137 


Carl  Sandburg 

SILVER  WIND 

Do  you  know  how  the  dream  looms?  how  if  summer 
misses  one  of  us,  the  two  of  us  miss  summer — 

Summer  when  the  lungs  of  the  earth  take  a  long 
breath  for  the  change  to  low  contralto  singing 
mornings  when  the  green  corn  leaves  first 
break  through  the  black  loam — 

And  another  long  breath  for  the  silver  soprano  mel 
ody  of  the  moon  songs  in  the  light  nights 
when  the  earth  is  lighter  than  a  feather,  the 
iron  mountains  lighter  than  a  goose  down — 

So  I  shall  look  for  you  in  the  light  nights  then,  in 
the  laughter  of  slats  of  silver  under  a  hill 
hickory; 

In  the  listening  tops  of  the  hickories,  in  the  wind 
motions  of  the  hickory  shingle  leaves,  in  the 
imitations  of  slow  sea  water  on  the  shingle 
silver  in  the  wind — 

I  shall  look  for  you. 


138 


Carl  Sandburg 

APRONS  OF  SILENCE 

MANY  things  I  might  have  said  today. 
And  I  kept  my  mouth  shut. 
So  many  times  I  was  asked 
To  come  and  say  the  same  things 
Everybody  was  saying,  no  end 
To  the  yes-yes,  yes-yes, 
me-too,  me-too. 

The  aprons  of  silence  covered  me. 

A  wire  and  hatch  held  my  tongue. 

I  spit  nails  into  an  abyss  and  listened. 

I  shut  off  the  gabble  of  Jones,  Johnson,  Smith, 

All  whose  names  take  pages  in  the  city  directory. 

I  fixed  up  a  padded  cell  and  lugged  it  around. 
I  locked  myself  in  and  nobody  knew  it. 
Only  the  keeper  and  the  kept  in  the  hoosegow 
Knew  it — on  the  streets,  in  the  postoffice, 
On  the  cars,  into  the  railroad  station 
Where  the  caller  was  calling,  "  All  a-board, 
All  a-board  for  ...  Blaa-blaa  .  .  .  Blaa-blaa, 
Blaa-blaa  .   .   .  and  all  points  northwest  ...  all 

a-board." 

Here  I  took  along  my  own  hoosegow 
And  did  business  with  my  own  thoughts. 
Do  you  see?    It  must  be  the  aprons  of  silence. 


139 


SARA   TEASDALE 


Sara  Teasdale 
SEA  SAND 

I — 'MOONLIGHT 

IT  will  not  hurt  me  when  I  am  old — 
A  running  tide  where  moonlight  burned 

Will  not  sting  me  like  silver  snakes; 
The  years  will  make  me  sad  and  cold, 

It  is  the  happy  heart  that  breaks. 

The  heart  asks  more  than  life  can  give, 
When  that  is  learned,  then  all  is  learned; 
The  waves  break  fold  on  jewelled  fold, 
But  beauty  itself  is  fugitive, 

It  will  not  hurt  me  when  I  am  old. 

II — "  LIKE    BARLEY   BENDING  " 

Like  barley  bending 
In  low  fields  by  the  sea, 

Singing  in  hard  wind 
Ceaselessly; 

Like  barley  bending 

And  rising  again, 
So  would  I,  unbroken, 

Rise  from  pain; 

So  would  I  softly, 

Day  long,  night  long, 
Change  my  sorrow 

Into  song. 

143 


Sara  Teas  dale 


HI — THE    UNCHANGING 

Sun-swept  beaches  with  a  light  wind  blowing 
From  the  immense  blue  circle  of  the  sea, 

And  the  soft  thunder  where  long  waves  whiten — 
These  were  the  same  for  Sappho  as  for  me. 


Two  thousand  years — much  has  gone  by  forever, 
Change  takes  the  gods  and  ships  and  speech  of 
men — 

But  here  on  the  beaches  that  time  passes  over 
The  heart  aches  now  as  then. 


IV — WHEN  DEATH  IS  OVER 

If  there  is  any  life  when  death  is  over, 
These  tawny  beaches  will  know  much  of  me, 

I  shall  come  back,  as  constant  and  as  changeful 
As  the  unchanging,  many-colored  sea. 


If  life  was  small,  if  it  has  made  me  scornful, 
Forgive  me;  I  shall  straighten  like  a  flame 

In  the  great  calm  of  death,  and  if  you  want  me 
Stand  on  the  sea-ward  dunes  and  call  my  name. 


144 


Sara  Teas  dale 


IN  SPRING:  SANTA  BARBARA 

I  HAVE  been  happy  two  weeks  together, 
My  love  is  coming  home  to  me, 

Gold  and  silver  is  the  weather 
And  smooth  as  lapis  is  the  sea. 

The  earth  has  turned  its  brown  to  green 
After  three  nights  of  humming  rain, 

And  in  the  valleys  peck  and  preen 
Linnets  with  a  scarlet  stain. 

High  in  the  mountains  all  alone 

The  wild  swans  whistle  on  the  lakes, — 

But  I  have  been  as  still  as  stone; 
My  heart  sings  only  when  it  breaks. 


145 


Sara  Teasdale 


THE  LONG  HILL 

I  MUST  have  passed  the  crest  a  while  ago 

And  now  I  am  going  down — 
Strange  to  have  crossed  the  crest  and  not  to  know, 

But  the  brambles  were  always  catching  the  hem 
of  my  gown. 

All  the  morning  I  thought  how  proud  I  should  be 

To  stand  there  straight  as  a  queen, 
Wrapped  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  with  the  world 

under  me — 

But  the  air  was  dull,  there  was  little  I  could  have 
seen. 

It  was  nearly  level  along  the  beaten  track 
And  the  brambles  caught  in  my  gown- 
But  it's  no  use  now  to  think  of  turning  back, 
The  rest  of  the  way  will  be  only  going  down. 


146 


Sara  Teasdale 


WATER  LILIES 

IF  you  have  forgotten  water-lilies  floating 

On  a  dark  lake  among  mountains  in  the  after 
noon  shade, 

If  you  have  forgotten  their  wet,  sleepy  fragrance, 
Then  you  can  return  and  not  be  afraid. 

But  if  you  remember,  then  turn  away  forever 
To  the  plains  and  the  prairies  where  pools  are  far 

apart, 
There  you  will  not  come  at  dusk  on  closing  water 

lilies, 

And  the  shadow  of  mountains  will  not  fall  on  your 
heart. 


147 


Sara  Teasdale 


STARS 

Alone  in  the  night 

On  a  dark  hill 
With  pines  around  me 

Spicy  and  still; 

A  heaven  full  of  stars 

Over  my  head, 
White  and  topaz 

And  misty  red; 

Myriads  with  beating 

Hearts  of  fire 
That  seons 

Cannot  vex  or  tire; 

Up  the  dome  of  heaven 
Like  a  great  hill, 

I  watch  them  marching 
Stately  and  still, 

And  I  know  that  I 
Am  honored  to  be 

Witness 

Of  so  much  majesty. 


148 


Sara   Teasdale 

"  SINCE  THERE  IS  NO  ESCAPE  " 

SINCE  there  is  no  escape,  since  at  the  end 

My  body  will  be  utterly  destroyed, 
This  hand  I  love  as  I  have  loved  a  friend, 

This  body  I  tended,  wept  with  and  enjoyed; 
Since  there  is  no  escape  even  for  me 

Who  love  life  with  a  love  too  sharp  to  bear: 
The  scent  of  orchards  in  the  rain,  the  sea 

And  hours  alone  too  still  and  sure  for  prayer- 
Since  darkness  waits  for  me,  then  all  the  more 
Let  me  go  down  as  waves  sweep  to  the  shore 

In  pride;  and  let  me  sing  with  my  last  breath; 
In  these  few  hours  of  light  I  lift  my  head, 
Life  is  my  lover — I  shall  leave  the  dead 

If  there  is  any  way  to  baffle  death. 


149 


Sara  Teasdale 


THE  TREE 

OH  to  be  free  of  myself, 

With  nothing  left  to  remember — 
To  have  my  heart  as  bare 

As  a  tree  in  December; 

Resting  as  a  tree  rests 

After  its  leaves  are  gone, 
Waiting  no  more  for  a  rain  in  the  night 

Nor  for  the  red  of  dawn; 

But  still,  oh,  so  still 

While  the  winds  come  .and  go, 
With  no  more  fear  of  the  hard  frost 

Or  the  bright  burden  of  snow; 

And  heedless,  heedless 

If  anyone  pass  and  see 
On  the  white  page  of  the  sky 

Its  thin  black  tracery. 


150 


Sara  Teasdale 

PLACES 

PLACES  I  love  come  back  to  me  like  music, 
Hush  me  and  heal  me  when  I  am  very  tired; 

I  see  the  oak  woods  at  Saxton's  flaming 

In  a  flare  of  crimson  by  the  frost  newly  fired; 

And  I  am  thirsty  for  the  spring  in  the  valley 
As  for  a  kiss  ungiven  and  long-desired. 

I  know  a  bright  world  of  snowy  hills  at  Boonton, 
A  blue  and  white  dazzling  light  on  everything  one 

sees 
The  ice-covered  branches  of  the  hemlocks  sparkle 

Bending  low  and  tinkling  in  the  sharp  thin  breeze, 
And  iridescent  crystals  fall  and  crackle  on  the  snow- 
crust 

With  the  winter  sun  drawing  cold  blue  shadows 
from  the  trees. 

Violet  now,  in  veil  on  veil  of  evening 
The  hills  across  from  Cromwell  grow  dreamy  and 

far; 
A  wood-thrush  is  singing  soft  as  a  viol 

In  the  heart  of  the  hollow  where  the  dark  pools 

are; 

The  primrose  has  opened  her  pale  yellow  flowers 
And  heaven  is  lighting  star  after  star. 

Places  I  love  come  back  to  me  like  music — 
Mid-ocean,  midnight,  the  waves  buzz  drowsily; 

151 


Sara  Teas  dale 

In  the  ship's  deep  churning  the  eerie  phosphorescence 
Is  like  the  souls  of  people  who  were  drowned  at 

sea, 
And  I  can  hear  a  man's  voice  speaking,  hushed, 

insistent, 
At  midnight,  in  mid-ocean,  hour  on  hour  to  me. 


152 


Sara  Teasdale 


"  WHAT  DO  I  CARE?  » 

WHAT  do  I  care,  in  the  dreams  and  the  languor  of 
spring, 

That  my  songs  do  not  show  me  at  all? 
For  they  are  a  fragrance,  and  I  am  a  flint  and  a  fire, 

I  am  an  answer,  they  are  only  a  call. 

What  do  I  care,  for  love  will  be  over  so  soon, 
Let  my  heart  have  its  say  and  my  mind  stand  idly 

by, 

For  my  mind  is  proud  and  strong  enough  to  be  silent, 
It  is  my  heart  that  makes  my  songs,  not  I. 


153 


JEAN   STARR   UNTERMEYER 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 


THREE  DREAMS 

I — THE  SILVER  YOKE 

J  GROW  sick;  I  grow  fainter  and  fainter 
With  picking  out  a  footing 
Among  these  tiny  crags 
That  seemed  made  of  lava 
Not  wholly  cooled. 

Fainter  and  frightened; 

Apprehensive  of  evil. 

What  end  threatens? 

What  doom — demeaned — degraded? 

I  see  dwarfed  men, 
Bald  and  ignoble, 
The  color  of  worms; 
They  glide  into  byways 
As  a  worm  glides. 

I  follow;  I  am  drawn  after; 
Caught  in  a  sick  spell. 

Through  me,  who  may  be  blighted? 
I  follow;  I  am  drawn  after.  .   .   . 

And  in  a  tent 

Of  dusky  velvet  folds 

I  stand  aghast. 

Rage  rends  me  with  a  purpose! 

157 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

A  maiden  lies  helpless, 

A  naked  maiden  whose  hair  swirls  down  from  her 

plaintive  head 
Like  wilful  golden  rivers, 
A  maiden  whose  tender  shoulders  are  held  down 
Under  a  yoke  of  beaten  silver. 
While  leering,  wormlike  men 
Feel  of  her  flesh  and  bargain  for  her  beauty 
With  low  and  horrible  cries. 


Anger  splits  me  apart. 

I  am  a  cloud — a  gale — 

An  avenging  storm! 

O  worms,  you  are  dead. 

O  maiden,  I  bring  you  a  cleaner  doom! 


II — LOVE    AND    ART 


I  left  the  place  where  one  had  sung, 

Misusing  music 

By  placing  herself  before  the  song. 

And  anger  at  mankind 

Battled  with  a  reverence 

That  music,  which  is  holy, 

Wakes  in  the  listening  breast. 

158 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

One  of  a  murmuring  crowd, 

I  walked  down  the  long  hill, 

Hurt  and  yet  eager; 

Throbbing  to  offer  myself 

As  servitor  to  all  I  loved. 

And  at  the  foot  of  the  modern  road 

Stood  an  arch,  vast  and  ancient. 

And  a  voice  in  the  shadow  bade  me  look  through  it; 

A  finger,  long,  lean  and  grey  pointed  back. 

I  saw  a  landscape,  mellow  and  magnificent, 
Rising  into  the  sky. 

Rolling  pastures,  fit  for  the  flocks  of  Lebanon; 
Temples  singing  in  the  sun; 
Purpled  rivers,  companioned  by  trees 
That  praised  God  by  their  symmetry. 
And  I  thought  to  myself: 
This  is  the  Past. 

But  the  voice  in  the  shadow  said: 

"  This  is  Art. 

This  is  not  for  you." 

And  again  the  finger  pointed.  .   .   . 

I  fell  into  a  great  weeping. 

Unwillingly  I  turned  and  going  further 

I  saw  chalked  on  a  naked  hoarding 

A  crude  sum: 

"  Love  minus  Art  =  Wife." 

And  I  followed,  with  withering  resignation, 

To  a  place  where  I  knew  you  waited. 

159 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 


HI — THE  HOLY  BAND 

It  was  evening  and  the  light  was  golden, 

Golden  on  the  furry  pasture, 

Golden  where  a  russet  bantam 

Drew  with  straining  curve  his  supper 

From  the  gilded,  gleaming  udder 

Of  a  cow  in  golden  shadow. 

I  bade  you  look, 

For  I  was  half  ashamed 

Of  this  disarray  of  nature 

In  the  golden  flood  of  evening. 

We  walked  together,  you  and  I, 

To  where  blue-robed  and  stately  women 

Moved  to  unsung  chants 

Toward  a  bidden  destination. 

And  loaves  and  honey 

Were  laid  out  in  holy  whiteness 

Along  their  assured  path. 

And  you  would  have  eaten, 

But  I  bade  you  stay  your  hand, 

Too  blithe  for  piety. 

And  I  was  swept  along 

As  by  a  command,  a  sweet  hearkening 

Easily  cleaving  the  swaying  band 

Till  I  was  leader — light  and  elated; 

Balanced  and  propelled  by  a  rhythm 

Of  myself  and  not  of  myself. 

160 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

I  moved  as  a  ship,  or  a  bird; 

And  yet  each  footstep  left  its  image 

Graven  in  the  hallowed  rock. 

On  ...  on  ...  till  the  walls  were  mirrors 

And  I  saw,  not  myself,  but  a  greater  self, 

Re-formed,  transfigured,  made  secure; 

Firm  .   .   .  and  free. 

And  at  last  we  came  to  the  end 

And  I  stood  before  bronzed  doors, 

Waiting  for  confirmation. 

The  doors  swung  back  with  the  hum  of  rolling  major 
chords 

And  I  saw  a  patriarch  teaching  a  child, 

A  patriarch  suffused  in  washes  of  light 

From  high,  unending  casements. 

He  lifted  his  capped  head 

And  nodded  it,  ponderous  and  shapely. 

He  looked  at  me  as  at  one  who  is  known  and  ex 
pected — 

And  gave  assent  by  a  grave  gesture. 

Joy  welled  up  in  my  heart, 
Stronger  than  light, 
Stronger  than  water, 
As  strong  as  song! 
And  I  turned  back 
With  tears  as  hallelujahs, 
Back  to  the  elder  women. 

161 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

A  SOLDIER  LISTENS 

(To  S.  S.) 

WHAT  was  it  came  to  distress  you? 
Who  from  the  restless  dead? 
As  you  sat  in  the  slanting  shadows 
With  a  heavy  head. 

The  music  pressed  in  among  us, 
Almost  too  much — 
You  quivered  and  seemed  to  be  startled 
By  a  known  touch. 

Even  when  healing  cadences 
Reached  out  to  you, 
Your  face  looked  broken  in  pieces, 
Shot  through  and  through. 

As  you  sat  in  the  slanting  shadows 
With  a  heavy  head, 
What  was  it  came  to  distress  you? 
Who  from  the  clamoring  dead? 


162 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

ON  TEMPLES 

Tell  me: 

Why  do  men  make  crypts  of  stone 

To  snare  a  living  God? 

Has  he  not  made  him  for  his  own 

A  temple  far  more  beautiful, 

Whose  ceiling  is  no  static  blue, 

And  the  walls  of  which  shine  with  no  ephemeral 

gilt; 

But  are  fashioned  of  quivering  green 
That  fades  only  to  bloom  again, 
Even  as  the  word  of  the  Lord. 


And  tell  me: 

Do  these  bought  singers  reach  his  favor? 
And  is  his  ear  arrested  by  these  paid  praises? 
Or  are  they  not  as  hired  mourners 
Whose  waitings  measure  the  purse,   not  the 
pulse  of  the  bereaved. 


Is  there  no  real  singer  among  us? 

Is  there  no  one  who  must  celebrate  our  hungers 

and  our  feastings 
And  make  a  mellow  music  for  God? 

163 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

And  is  there  no  dancer,  who  with  leaping  joy 

and  drooping  sorrow 

Will  show  our  state  to  the  eyes  of  our  Father? 
And  are  there  not  many — yea,  millions  — 
Who  will  make  living  works 
That  will  invite  the  Almighty 
So  that  he  will  come  down  and  dwell  in  them. 


164 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

GLIMPSE  IN  AUTUMN 

LADIES  at  a  ball 

Are  not  so  fine  as  these 
Richly  brocaded  trees 

That  decorate  the  fall. 

They  stand  against  a  wall 
Of  crisp  October  sky, 
Their  plumed  heads  held  high 

Like  ladies  at  a  ball. 


165 


Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 

DURING  DARKNESS 

TAKE  me  under  thy  wing,  0  Death, 

I  am  tired,  I  am  cold. 

Take  me  under  thy  wing,  O  great,  impartial  bird; 

Take  me,  carry  me  hence 

And  let  me  sleep. 

For  the  soil  that  was  once  so  sweet  is  sour  with 

rotting  dead; 

The  air  is  acrid  with  battle  fumes; 
And  even  the  sky  is  obscured  by  the  cannon's  smoke. 
Beauty  and  Peace — where  are  they? 
They  have  gone,  and  to  what  avail? 
The  mountains  stand  where  the  mountains  stood, 
And  the  polluted  seas  boil  in  the  selfsame  basin, 
Unconcerned. 

The  beast  in  man  is  again  on  the  trail, 
Swinging  his  arms  and  sniffing  the  air  for  blood. 
And  what  was  gentle, 
What  bore  fruit  with  patient  pain,  is  gone. 

Take  me  under  thy  wing, 
O  Death. 


166 


LOUIS   UNTERMEYER 


Louis   Untermeyer 

BOY  AND  TADPOLES 

HE  brought  them  from  the  muddy  creek 

And  clapped  them  in  this  glassy  sphere; 
He  studies  them  but  does  not  speak 

While  they  flash  by  and  disappear. 
They  curve  and  veer,  they  swerve  and  roll, 

A  world  of  brown  and  yellow  gleams — 
Six  tadpoles  in  a  green  glass  bowl  .   .   . 

He  watches  them — and  dreams: 

Black  water  and  a  burnished  moon. 

What  ship  is  that  in  the  dark  lagoon? 

Over  an  oily  sea  she  slips 

And  drips  a  phosphorescent  spray. 

One  hears  the  rattle  of  dice  at  play 

The  cheers  and  clatter  of  drunken  quips 

And  thick  lips  roaring  a  ribald  tune. 

Her  sides  are  gashed  and  pitted  and  scarred 

And  marred  with  slashes  of  brilliant  rust. 

Is  it  blood  that  glows  like  an  evil  crust? 

Or  mud  that  has  grown  like  a  stone  fixed  hard 

On  this  ill-starred  vessel  of  loot  and  lust? 

What's  that?    That  spot  on  the  faint  horizon? 

They  glue  their  eyes  on  the  tossing  dot. 

It  crosses  the  moon  like  a  curious  blot 

While  furious  cries  of  "  Blast  'em!  "  and  "  Pizen!  " 

Reveal  that  the  missing  prize  has  been  sought  for 

169 


Louis   Untermeyer 

And  soon  will  be  caught,  for  the  little  speck, 

Towering  in  size,  turns  round  the  neck 

Of  forbidden  land  with  its  hidden  ship; 

Pauses,  inquires — and  fires  a  shot! 

Crash!    There's  the  clash  of  cutlass  and  sword; 

Gun-barrels  flash  on  the  swarming  deck; 

The  storming  party  surges  aboard. 

A  hot  wind  scourges,  the  bullets  whip 

The  figures  that  stumble  in  blood  which  is  poured 

In  a  tumbling  flood  through  the  crumbling  night 

And  stains  the  white  dawn  with  a  hideous  light. 

Ripples  of  dappled  crimson  and  brown 

Show  where  the  sloops  have  grappled  and  split. 

Here's  where  The  Royal  Ben  went  down; 

And  there,  ten  yards  to  the  right  of  it, 

The  Black  Avenger,  full  to  the  guards, 

Riding  the  track  of  a  lone  disgrace, 

Sank  in  her  own  dank  hiding-place. 

Nothing's  afloat  but  the  broken  shards, 

A  boat  and  an  oaken  beam  or  two.  .  .  . 

What  of  the  captain?    What  of  the  crew? 

Go,  ask  the  sharks  in  the  dark  and  bloody 

Depths  where  the  clean  green  tides  turn  muddy. 

Ask  of  those  bloated  bellies  that  veer 

In  the  ruddy  welter  that  shelters  them  all. 

Ask,  as  they  plash  their  watery  wall, 

Before  they  flash  and  disappear, 

And  dwindle  .  .  .  and  shrink  .  .  .  and  sink  to  their 

hole  .   .   . 
170 


Louis  Untermeyer 

And  change  ...  to  ...  little  things  .    .   .  with 

gleams  .   .   . 

Describing  rings  as  they  curve  .   .   .  and  roll  .   .   . 
Six  tadpoles  in  a  green  glass  bowl — 
He  watches  them  and  dreams: 

A  sea  of  lapis  lazuli, 

With  casual  sunbeams  lacing  gold 

On  light  skiffs  facing  the  west,  on  old 

Bright  cliffs  that  rise  from  some  mythical  story, 

On  clouds  that  rest  on  the  promontory, 

And  waves  that  reach  white  arms  to  the  beach. 

Sparkle  and  shimmer  .  .  .  glimmer  and  shine  .   .  . 

The  sea  grows  dimmer  .  .  .  and  dark  ...  as  wine. 

Who  is  that  swimmer,  untiring,  returning, 

Churning  the  brine? 

Is  it  Leander  .   .   .  that  darirg  boy? 

Those  skiffs  .   .   .  Agamemnon's?    That  cliff  .   .   . 

is  it  Troy? 

A  glow  of  sea-faring,  home-yearning  faces 
Flares  like  a  torch  through  these  burning  spaces. 
The  sea  is  turning  a  livelier  hue — 
Pools  of  the  sun  are  gold  oases 
On  a  sweeping  plain  of  purple  and  blue. 
And — leap  and  curve — and  swerve  and  flicker — 
And  dip  and  swirl  with  a  flip  of  the  tail, 
The  dolphins,  coming  faster,  thicker, 
Dive  through  the  alabaster  foam. 
Under  a  sapphire  dome  they  sail 
And  scale  the  breakers  that  drive  them  home. 

171 


Louis  Vntermeyer 

But  some  more  stately  and  corpulent  fishes 

Move  sedately,  as  though  suspicious 

Of  these  young  friskers;  their  weedy  whiskers 

Lie  in  a  wry  disapprobation 

Of  such  spry  methods  of  navigation. 

They  wag  their  heads  in  a  solemn  gesture — 

And  still  the  column  moves,  a  nation 

Of  dapper  fins  and  swishing  flappers. 

But  what  is  advancing  in  radiant  vesture? 
A  mock  sun  dancing,  it  floats  along! 
Notes  of  a  song;  low,  gradient  cries 
Rise  from  the  image — or  is  it  a  god 
Come  to  revisit  the  haunts  of  his  youth! 
Fable  or  truth — can  the  boy  trust  his  eyes? 
There,  with  bright  hair,  like  a  tossing  fire 
Crossing  the  sunset,  a  shape  with  a  lyre 
Flashes  and  glows  .  .  .  where  no  being  has  trod! 
He  guides  his  strange  courser  with  never  a  rein; 
And  spurring  the  jewelled  sides  of  a  slender 
Dolphin  that  glides  on  this  velvet  lane, 
Apollo  rides  in  his  antique  splendor! 

The  sea  has  become  a  dazzling  rout: — 
Sea-urchins  hum  and  the  great  tides  shout. 
Star-fish  sing  in  their  shining  courses. 
Sea-horses  whinny  and  gild  their  manes. 
Thrilled  by  these  strains  to  its  finny  sources, 
Ocean  strikes  off  its  ancient  chains; 
And,  from  its  rivers  and  hurricanes, 
172 


Louis  Untermeyer 

Strains  and  delivers  its  cherished  dead. 
Perished  adventurers,  sailors  and  mariners, 
Buried  for  centuries:  Norsemen,  Phoenician, 
Danish  and  Spanish  and  Roman  and  Grecian, 
Clean-shaven  natives  and  thick-bearded  foreigners — 
Up  from  the  graves  with  a  mountainous  tread, 
Roll  out  the  staves  of  their  chanteys  and  calls. 
Evening  falls.  .   .   .  But  the  revel  continues. 
An  ivory  moon  looks  down  and  whitens 
The  backs  of  Tritons  and  bathes  their  sinews. 
Here  in  this  amorous,  glamorous  weather, 
Mermaids  and  pirates  whisper  together.  .   .   . 

And,  during  it  all,  the  dolphins  are  leaping, 
Sweeping  their  silver-tipped  tails  in  a  sway 
Of  rhythms  so  gay  that  they  play  without  sleeping. 
Dancing  and  dipping;  glancing  and  flipping 
Sparks  from  the  arcs  they  describe  in  the  spray. 
Mirth  that  is  bounded  by  nothing  but  clear 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  in  a  high,  hollow  sphere; 
Spirit-surrounded,  with  buoyant  elation, 
They  weave,  these  green  shuttles,  a  subtle  persuasion, 
A  magic,  half-Asian,  that  bears  him  away. 
A  mingling  of  patterns  and  echoes  and  themes 
That  swim  through  his  fancy  like  runaway  streams; 
A  dim,  shifting  blur  of  disaster  and  drifting  .  .  . 
Of  blood  flowing  faster,  of  livelier  measures  .    .    . 
Of  treasures  .   .   .  and  Time  .   .  .  and  secret  veils 

lifting  .   .    . 
And  heroes  .  .  .  and  tadpoles  .  .  .  and  dreams. 

173 


Louis   Untermeyer 

SHIN-LEAF 
(For  R.  F.) 

WHAT  drew  me  first  to  them  was  the  surprise 
Of  finding  so  much  brazen  loveliness 
In  drab  New  England  woods.    I  tried  to  guess 

The  message  hidden  in  their  frank  disguise. 

I  looked  of  course  for  maxims;  but  they  would 
Not  speak  to  me  of  beauty  or  its  cause. 
Sharing  their  silence  with  pipsissewas, 

Stiff,  in  their  lilied  dignity,  they  stood. 

I  think  I  loved  them  all  the  more  for  this, 
And  for  the  plain  suggestion  of  their  use 
As  country  plasters  on  a  cut  or  bruise, 

Than  for  a  weightier  analysis. 

Magic  without  a  meaning!     And  a  floral 
Tribute  to  nothing  greater  than  themselves, 
Or  the  few  rocks  that  laid  the  moss  in  shelves  .  . 

I  left  the  place  without  a  single  moral. 


174 


Louis   Untermeyer 


THE  NEW  ADAM 

HER  body  is  that  glorious  gate 

Opening  on  fresh  and  surging  skies, 

The  door  of  flesh  that  holds  a  late 
And  larger  Paradise. 

Through  this  I  plunge  with  hungry  haste 
Down  the  old  garden,  stock  and  root. 

Nothing  is  barred;  I  touch  and  taste 
Its  unforbidden  fruit. 

The  amorous  jungle  spreads  its  feasts, 
The  lion  fawns  about  my  knee; 

A  new  strength  dawns ;  and  all  the  beasts 
Are  risen  and  contained  in  me. 

Soft  thunders  gather,  as  the  glen 

Unfolds  the  tree  from  which  she  shakes 

Her  heart  for  me — and  once  again 
The  wave  of  lightning  breaks.  .  .  . 

Oh  shut  the  gate !    Let  me  be  driven 
Down  the  dark  byways  of  the  past. 

What  right  have  I  in  such  a  heaven 
To  whom  earth  clings  so  fast! 


175 


Louis   Untermeyer 

FREE 

And  suddenly  the  touch  of  flesh 
Is  hateful  as  those  hungry  curves, 

And  every  point  of  contact  is  a  fresh 
Agony  to  these  whipped  and  exhausted  nerves. 

Warm  hollows,  will  you  never  let 

Me  go  till  you  have  buried  all  my  will? 

Oh,  to  be  free  of  the  body,  to  lie  and  forget 
The  use  of  lips  and  hands,  to  lie  and  be  still. 

I  want  a  bed  with  room  to  spare, 

Where  nothing  breathes  and  sleep  is  sure; 
There  lust  shall  have  a  deeper  sense,  for  there 

The  worm  shall  be  my  only  paramour. 

Slowly  the  worm  shall  have  his  fill 

(As  I  have  had)  of  flesh  and  frequency, 

Until  the  body  falls  away,  until 
Passion  devours  me — and  sets  me  free. 


176 


Louis  Untermeyer 
INTERCESSION 

NIGHT, 

Take  down  the  moon's  keen  sickle 

And  reap  a  bright 

Destruction  on  these  light  and  fickle 

Souls  that  dance  with  every  wind. 

Sweep  left  and  right 

Until  these  overplanted  fields  are  thinned. 

But  spare, 

In  your  intolerant  wrath, 

One  flower  struggling  where  the  path 

Is  overgrown  with  weeds  and  grass. 

The  rain  has  barely  touched  her  thirst. 

Let  her  drink  sunlight  first. 

Night,  when  you  see  her  waiting  there, 

Pass. 


177 


Louis   Untermeyer 

A  MARRIAGE 

I  TELL  you  it  is  over  and  I  mean  it. 

You  have  been  tugging  at  my  joy  too  long. 
The  coming  of  the  end — you  must  have  seen  it — 

Finds  us  still  struggling,  stubborn  but  not  strong. 

You  light  your  darkness  on  me,  you  rekindle 
Things  long  burnt  out  upon  my  warmth  in  vain. 

Your  flicker  fails;  the  gusty  fires  dwindle. 
And  though  you  use  me  up,  what  do  you  gain? 

If  you  could  only  drink  some  buoyance  from  me, 
Or  draw  me  up,  like  blood,  to  be  transfused; 

But  all  your  heavy  broodings  overcome  me, 
And  leave  us  both  bewildered  and  misused. 

Well,  let  us  try  once  more  this  magnifier 

Of  pride  and  passions.    Let  it  burn  us  through. 

Come,  take  of  me  whatever  you  require; 
I  shall  not  tell  you  what  I  steal  from  you. 

Thus,  feeding  but  not  fed,  we  waste  each  other, 
And  war  with  weapons  never  understood. 

And  win,  with  each  new  ending,  one  another; 
And  take  up  arms  again  .   .   .  and  find  it  good. 


178 


Louis  Untermeyer 


WORDS  FOR  A  JIG 

(To  be  danced  on  the  grave  of  an  enemy) 

THUS  I  pay  the  visit 

Promised  years  ago. 
Tell  me,  loyal  friend,  how  is  it 

There  below? 

Do  these  weeds  and  mullein 

Choke  each  angry  mood, 
Or  increase  your  hard  and  sullen 

Torpitude? 

You  who  sought  distractions 

Howsoever  base, 
Have  you  learned  to  love  inaction's 

Slower  pace? 

Here,  at  least,  you've  found  that 

You  belong  to  earth; 
Dying  on  the  careless  ground  that 

Gave  you  birth. 

Do  not  let  it  fret  you; 

Things  are  not  so  drear. 
Though  the  heartless  world  forget  you, 

7  am  here! 

179 


Louis  Untermeyer 

I  have  not  forgotten 

How  you  loved  the  stir; 
Black  at  heart  and  doubly  rotten 

Though  you  are. 

So  I  take  my  fiddle, 

And  I  roar  a  stave; 
Dancing  gaily  on  the  middle 

Of  your  grave. 

And  I  tramp  the  new  wood, 

And  I  shout  halloo — 
All  the  lively  things  that  you  would 

Like  to  do. 

Such  regard  must  cheer  you 

In  your  misery, 
Although  I  can  scarcely  hear  you 

Thanking  me. 

But  I  ask  no  hands  in 
Thanks  or  loud  applause; 

I  am  glad  to  sing  and  dance  in 
Such  a  cause. 

Thus  I  pay  the  visit 
Promised  years  ago  .   .  . 

Tell  me,  loyal  friend,  how  is  it 
There  below? 


180 


Louis  Untermeyer 

"  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR  " 
(For  T.  M.  Kettle.    Died  at  Ginchy,  1916.) 

You  always  were  for  sides,  your  hand 

Rose  to  the  shock  of  partisan  blows. 
And  now,  at  ease  in  No  Man's  land, 

You  sprawl  between  your  friends  and  foes. 
The  carved  mouth  and  the  challenging  eye, 

Your  loud  scorn  and  your  quiet  faith — 
Who  would  believe  that  you  would  lie 

In  the  anonymous  ranks  of  death! 

I  wonder  how  you  take  your  rest, 

Whose  restless  vigor  tossed  and  burned; 
And  do  you  find  earth's  stony  breast 

Warmer  than  those  from  which  you  turned? 
Are  you  content  with  this,  the  goal 

Of  all  your  purposes  and  pains; 
Knowing  the  iron  in  your  soul 

Will  not  corrode,  for  all  the  rains? 

An  end  to  questions  now;  you  are 

Their  silent  answer  on  this  red 
Terrain  where  every  flickering  star 

Is  a  last  candle  by  your  bed. 
The  guns  have  gone,  and  you  are  part 

Of  the  clean  winds  that  smooth  your  brow. 
O  vigilant  mind,  O  tireless  heart, 

Try  sleeping  now. 

181 


Louis  Untermeyer 

THE  GARLAND  FOR  DEBS 

HERE,  in  our  easy  chairs,  we  sit  and  choose 
Words  for  a  garland  woven  of  our  praise; 
The  fluent  metaphor,  the  striking  phrase, 

Inserted  gracefully,  are  what  we  use.  .  .  . 

And  there  he  stands,  and  silently  reviews 

The  bitter-scented  nights,  the  flowerless  days, 
Thinking  of  all  the  many  little  ways 

A  man  may  win  all  that  he  seems  to  lose. 

And  then — this  verbal  wreath  .  .  .  perfumed  . 
precise. 

Pathetic  incongruity.  ...  It  adorns 
A  head  too  scarred  and  knotted  to  be  nice. 

This  floral  tribute  prettifies  the  scorns 
And  outrage.     Something  plainer  should  suffice: 

Some  simple,  patriotic  crown  of  thorns. 


182 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


(The   following   lists   include   poetical  works   only) 


CONRAD  AIKEN 
Earth    Triumphant 
Turns  and  Movies 
The  Jig  of  Forslin 
Nocturne    of    Remembered 

Spring 

The  Charnel  Rose 
The  House  of  Dust 

ROBERT   FROST 
A  Boy's  Will 
North  of  Boston 
Mountain  Interval 

rOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 
Fire    and    Wine     (out    of 

print) 
The  Dominant  City  (out  of 

print) 

Fool's  Gold   (out  of  print) 
The  Book  of   Nature   (out 

of  print) 
Visions    of    the     Evening 

(out  of  print) 
Irradiations 
Goblins  and  Pagodas 
Japanese   Prints 
The  Tree  of  Life 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 
Rhymes  to  be  Traded   for 

Bread 

General  William  Booth  En 
ters  Into  Heaven 


The  Macmillan  Company  1914 
Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  1916 
The  Four  Seas  Company  1916 

The  Four  Seas  Company  1917 
The  Four  Seas  Company  1918 
The  Four  Seas  Company  1920 


Henry  Holt  and  Company  1914 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1915 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1916 


Grant  Richards  (London)  1913 

Max  Goschen  (London)     1913 
Max  Goschen  (London)     1913 

Constable  &  Co.  (London)  1913 
Erskine  Macdonald 

(London)  1913 

Houghton  Mifflin  Co.          1915 
Houghton  Mifflin  Co.          1916 
The  Four  Seas  Company   1918 
Chatto  &  Windus   (Lon 
don)  1918 


Privately  printed,  Spring 
field,    111.  1912 
Mitchell  Kennerley             1913 

185 


Bibliography 


The     Congo     and     Other 

Poems 

The  Chinese  Nightingale 
The  Golden  Whales  of  Cal 
ifornia 

AMY  LOWELL 

A  Dome  of  Many-Coloured 

Glass 
Sword    Blades    and    Poppy 

Seed 

Men,    Women   and    Ghosts 
Can  Grande's  Castle 
Pictures    of    the    Floating 

World 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 
Monday  Morning  and  Other 

Poems 

Songs   for  the  New  Age 
War  and  Laughter 
The  Book  of  Self 
The   Solitary 


The  Macmillan  Company  1915 
The  Macmillan  Company  1917 

The  Macmillan  Company  1920 


Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  1912 

The  Macmillan  Company  1914 

The  Macmillan  Company  1916 

The  Macmillan  Company  1918 

The  Macmillan  Company  1919 


Sturgis  &  Walton  Co. 
The  Century  Company 
The  Century  Company 
Alfred   A.   Knopf 
B.  W.   Huebsch 


1909 
1914 
IQI5 
1917 
1919 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

The  Torrent  and  The 
Night  Before  (out  of 
print) 

The  Children  of  the  Night 

The  Town  Down  the  River 

Captain  Craig  (revised  edi 
tion} 

The  Man  Against  the  Sky 

Merlin 

Lancelot 

The  Three  Taverns  (in 
preparation) 

CARL  SANDBURG 
Chicago  Poems 
Cornhuskers 

Smoke  and  Steel  (in  prep 
aration) 

186 


Privately  printed,  Gardi 
ner,  Me.  1896 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  1905 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  1910 

The  Macmillan  Company  1915 

The  Macmillan  Company  1916 

The  Macmillan  Company  1917 

Thomas   Seltzer  1920 

The  Macmillan  Company  1920 


Henry  Holt  and  Company  1916 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1918 

Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe  1920 


Bibliography 


The   Poet  Lore  Co. 


SARA  TEASDALE 
Sonnets    to    Duse    (out   of 

print) 
Helen   of   Troy   and   other 

Poems  G.   P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Rivers  to  the  Sea 
Love  Songs 
Flame     and     Shadow     (in 

preparation) 


1907 


IQII 

The  Macmillan  Company  1915 
The  Macmillan  Company  1917 


The  Macmillan  Company  1920 
JEAN  STARR  UNTERMEYER 


Growing   Pains 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 
The  Younger  Quire  (out  of 

print) 

First  Love    (out  of  print) 
Challenge 

"—And   Other   Poets  " 
Poems  of  Heinrich  Heine 
These  Times 
Including  Horace 
Challenge    (fourth  edition) 
The  New  Adam   (in  prep 
aration) 


B.  W.  Huebsch 


1918 


Moods  Publishing  Co.  1911 
Sherman  French  &  Co.  1911 
The  Century  Company  1914 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1916 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1917 
Henry  Holt  and  Company  1917 
Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe  1919 
Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe  1920 

Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe  1920 


187 


,.U.£.?0.U™.™  REGIONAL  LIBRAR 


A     000047369     4 


